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i 


SPIDERS AND RICE PUDDING. 



SARAH G. BARBOUR. 



NEW YORK: 

THE AUTHORS’ PUBLISHING COMPANY, 

BOND STREET. 



~PZt 
,Jb 2.54 yS 


Entered according to Act of Congress in tlie year 1879, by 
THE AUTHORS’ PUBLISHING COMPANY, 

In tbe Office of the Librarian of Congress at Washington. 


A CONFIDENTIAL WORD WITH THE READER. 


I heard once of a sermon between which and the text 
there was so little connection that if one had had the small- 
pox, the other would not have caught it. That will be the 
case with my story and its title; so don’t take up the book 
hoping to improve yourself in natural history, nor yet do 
not delude yourself with the idea that I have a new and im- 
proved receipt for a rice pudding (although, by the way, I 
have — “ two raisins to one grain of rice.”) I shall have 
precious little to say about spiders, because, like a certain 
character in “ Little Women,” “ I hate spiders and rice pud- 
ding.” Do you, dear reader ? Yes? Then from henceforth 
we are friends. 

A spider wrote this story — no, that was not what I in- 
tended to say — if it had not been for a spider, the story 
would never have been written. 

How shall I explain it all to you? I have dipped my 
pen in the ink-bottle six times, and as often carried it to the 
sheet of foolscap which lies before me, patiently waiting for 
the proper words to drop from my pen, but they won’t — so 
I may as well tell you that a few days ago, when I was look- 
ing for a roll of pieces to mend my blue cashmere, in the 
room over the dining-room, I found the cashmere in the 
wardrobe, and also a spicier. It was not an ordinary little 
spider, but an extraordinary large one. 

I could not step on him, although I would willingly see 
any one else do so. Suppose I throw a book at him — no, 

( 3 ) 


4 A CONFIDENTIAL WORD WITH THE READER. 


that is not possible, because the books are on the table at 
the other side of the room, and I — no matter where I am — 
yes, I will tell (I scorn to deceive) — I am on the bed, and 
there in that blessed bed I suffer one mortal hour and gaze 
at that spider. I counted his legs ; you know I must do 
something, and what else was there to do ? I commenced 
with the front ones, and went backward. I commenced w T ith 
the back ones, and went forward. There were eight, always 
eight, and each time I counted the longer they grew ; for the 
impertinent spider sat quietly in one position, deliberately 
staring me out of countenance. Then I wondered how 
many of his sons and daughters were out promenading, and 
how many of them were crawling up the back of my dress. 
I dared not look behind me to see. A terrible fascination 
chained my eyes to the spider. But w T hy harrow your 
feelings ? The spider and I, respectively and simultaneously, 
shot under the wardrobe and out of the door. The fol- 
lowing day I had the room thoroughly swept. I superin- 
tended the operation myself, and in spite of Jane’s remon- 
strances had the wardrobe moved, that no vestige of a 
spider should find a resting-place there. 

That is hpw it happened that I found a roll of manu- 
script. The house is very old, and had been closed for a 
number of years before our marriage, and I suppose it is a 
long time since the wardrobe had been moved. 

Various ideas suggested themselves to me as I saw the 
roll of paper. All the strange stories I had heard of wills 
came to me. I almost feared to open the bundle ; perhaps 
I would find that the house and all the property had been 
willed to some far-off cousin or to a lunatic asylum. Shall 
I open it or give it to my husband, — he has gone to the 
city and cannot return until evening. My woman’s curb 
osity prevails, I unroll the manuscript and read the story 
which is before you. 


SPIDEKS AND EICE PUDDING. 


CHAPTER I. 

S. Kilda’s Content. 

My Dear : 

At last I have had an adventure, a real romantic affair, 
and the mystery of the thing constitutes its chief beauty. I 
have always longed for a romance, and now after fifteen 
years of a prosaic life it has come. Am I more silly than 
other girls? I don’t believe so; what say you? Nothing? 

Now bend your sympathetic ear while I relate the details. 
Let me begin at the beginning. You know perhaps that the 
Sister Superior never allows us to walk outside the convent 
grounds ; indeed, since I came here last September I have 
not once been outside the gate. That has a prison-like sound ; 
indeed, it sounds much worse than it is, as the grounds are 
very extensive ; and we can coast and skate in winter, and 
wander through the woods in summer. A sister accompa- 
nies us in all our walks. 

I am slowly but surely approaching the romantic moment 
when — but had I not better defer the crisis for another let- 
ter ? If I were positive that I had aroused your curiosity I 
think I would make you wait a week or two longer for the 
denouement. Will you, can you wait ? Perhaps you can, 
but indeed I cannot; so listen. This has been an introduc- 
tion, worthy, as regards length, of a three volume novel. 

Last Wednesday we all took our afternoon walk as usual. 


6 


SPIDERS AND RICE PUDDING. 


I have never seen a more perfect day; it was a “poem, the 
air champagne, the scene point-lace upon the neck of nature. ” 

Sister Matilda was with us, and allowed us to wander off 
by twos and threes. When Sister Mary has us in charge we 
are all kept within range of her eye; consequently, we hail 
the day when Sister Matilda takes us out. IJpon this event- 
ful day I sat alone under an old tree, dreaming and building 
air-castles, when suddenly a bit of stick fell into my lap, and 
then another, and finally a mass of leaves rolled into a ball 
fell on my hand. This startled me, and naturally I looked 
up into the tree to investigate the cause of all this phenomena, 
but when I espied a pair of good strong boots I was too 
alarmed for further investigation, and I believe I gave a 
scream, at least I suppose I was foolish enough to do so, and 
then I ran off* to join the other girls. No sooner, however, 
had I reached them than I wished myself back again under 
the tree. I think I should have gone back, but just then 
sister called us all to commence our homeward march, and 
thus I was forced, much against my will, to return with the 
others. 

Are you very much interested and excited, or doesn’t this 
suit you as a romance ? No ? Well I have not got to the 
real romantic part yet ; that is still in reserve. 

The following day when we went out for our promenade, 
I wandered off* by myself, and in the direction of the old 
tree ; it had a peculiar fascination for me. Before I reached 
the place a bunch of violets was thrust into my hand ; it was 
done so quickly that I had only time to see that a tall, hand- 
some fellow had given me the flowers; he lifted his hat, and 
then bounded off, at least he gave a light spring from the 
rock and was immediately out of sight. And I, why I stood 
spell-bound for a moment, then glancing at my flowers, I 
saw that a little note had been fastened to them. “ I beg a 
thousand pardons,” it ran, “and apologize on my knees 
(figuratively speaking) for my rudeness of yesterday. I did 
not wish to frighten you with my pieces of sticks and leaves 


SPIDERS AND RICE PUDDING. 


7 


which I dropped from the tree on your head. Say you for- 
give me, and perhaps some obliging breeze will waft the 
words to me.” 

There was no name. Who could this idle youth be, and 
why was he trespassing on our convent grounds ? W as he 
one of the students at the Military Academy ? 

And that is all of my romance — short and mysterious, 
and — well — just a little wee bit unsatisfactory — as I have not 
seen him since. 

If ever I see my knight of the woods again you shall hear 
of it, unless you write me a letter upon the impropriety of 
the affair, and the exceeding foolishness of school girls — if 
you do ! ! — but I will keep my threats — only don’t lecture. 

Here comes Kate Stanley — the witch of the school — so I 
must put up my writing — or, no — as you are constantly 
asking me to tell you something of our school life, what 
better opportunity could I have, now Kate is present, to 
give things a dramatic effect. 

If you are bored at the recital blame only yourself for 
making such a rash request. I think you were crazy when 
you made it, and it is hardly fair for me to take advantage 
of you ; nevertheless, I will. 

ScE^E I. — Act I. 

Place — School Room. — Dramatis Personae — Half a dozen 
school girls. 

Kate Stanley. “ Kow girls listen. I have just gained the 
Sister Superior’s permission to invite Cousin James to call 
on me, so I have written him a note. Shall I read it to you ? ” 

Chorus of “ yes ” in the various key — notes of sharps and 
flats, with a “yes” eager, a “yes” laughing, a “yes” indif- 
ferent, comes from the girls. 

Kate. “ I suppose I must confess to Mademoiselle that I 
wrote the note in study hour, and if I do I shall lose three 
marks. Oh ! dear, I wish I hadn’t such a tender conscience, 
or that the spirit had not moved me to indite this effusion 


8 


SPIDERS AND RICE PUDDING. 


with which I am now about to regale you at such an inaus- 
picious moment. But to commence. Fellow citizens and 
school-mates (you young lady there in the corner, put away 
your algebra, and give me your undivided and mathematical 
attention) ; as I have before remarked, but in a less imposing 
tone; fellow citizens and school-mates (Susie Wood, you are 
eating slate pencils, thereby ruining your complexion and 
distracting me; and where are your toes? not turned out; 
I’ll warrant you). But to proceed — no, I guess I won’t read 
it; I don’t meet with the proper encouragement.” 

A chorus of “ do read it,” brought Kate to the letter. 

“ As you want it, very well, here it is. 

“ ‘ Dear James : — 

“ ‘ The Sister Superior has given me permission to invite 
you to call on me. 

“ ‘ Of the seven evenings in the week, please choose any one 
of them for your call but Thursday ; if you appear upon that 
unfortunate night, I shall be obliged to take you in a room 
where a ‘ veiled saint ’ is constantly on guard, and where 
racks and thumb-screws are scattered about with a reckless 
profusion. 

“ ‘ The ‘how’ and ‘ why’ of this prevaricating I will ex- 
plain upon a future occasion. Excuse my cautions, but no 
talking on the stairs will be allowed, no dancing in the hall, 
no flirting at the front windows, nor idle gazing from the 
back ones. Please do not bring fagots and a match, as we 
have only eight sisters, and cannot spare one of them. I 
believe I am always especially wicked on Mondays, the re- 
action after Sunday, so I hope you will only read the first 
sentence of this epistle.’ 

“ Girls, did you ever hear such a nonsensical letter ? * But I 
couldn’t help it, the words slid off my pen ; besides James is 
twice as old as I am, and a real blue old Presbyterian, and 
he thinks it dreadful for me to be in a convent, and I like 
to shock him. Do you think my letter will make him jump ? 
When he comes he will scold me for my levity. But there 


SPIDERS AND RICE PUDDING. 9 

is the bell for compline, girls ! For your lives don’t men- 
tion the letter.” 

I stopped writing long enough to go into chapel ; now I 
will try and finish this. 

We all wear long white veils when we go into chapel, 
which is often enough ; before breakfast, before school, and 
after dinner and before bed-time. 

I think you would like our chapel. To-night there were 
some beautiful lilies on the altar ; the light was quite dim, 
and threw the shadow of the cross which stands on the altar 
upon the picture of our Lord, which hangs directly behind it. 

After the service is over we pass in slow procession up the 
stairs to the drawing-room, which is a charming room open- 
ing into the conservatory. The younger children go to the 
recreation room, where for an hour they are absolute masters 
of the situation, and can scream themselves hoarse, or shout 
themselves black in the face ; they can jump, tumble, dance, 
cry, sing, sew, quarrel, and indulge in any little infantile 
amusements which happen to strike their youthful fancy. 
Indeed I doubt if children ever have better times. 

We are all in the drawing-room now — some of the girls 
are reading, others sewing, most of them are conjugating the 
verb “ to talk,” in all its moods and tenses. 

“ Kate, dear,” says one of the girls, “ have you sent your 
letter ?” 

Kate. “Yes; and I wish I had not said anything about 
Thursday, but left it to chance; it will be just like him to 
come then to see if there are saints and thumb-screws scat- 
tered around.” 

“And pray why shouldn’t he come then?” 

Kate. “ Why, stupid, you know well enough why. Isn’t 
Thursday the general reception day for the school, and do 
you suppose I want James to come when the parlors are 
full. We would have to condense ourselves in one corner, 
and talk in subdued tones ” 

“ Imagine Kate Stanley talking in subdued tones ” 


10 


SPIDERS AND RICE PUDDING. 


“ No, indeed, I should be distracted before fifteen minutes 
were over if I could not jump out of my chair and fly to 
the other end of the room, pretending that I saw a spider or 
a mouse. You cannot tell how a pious fraud of this kind 
helps to break the ice. I had a call once. Oh ! horrors, 
girls, my hair turns gray to think upon it. He was — well, he 
was not as interesting as he might have been, and I, I was — 
well, at the end of ten minutes at my wit’s end, because in 
that time I had exhausted every available topic of conversa- 
tion. 

“ I knew, just as you know when a chill is coming on, 
that a dead and dreadful pause was approaching, and in 
despair — I hope I shall be forgiven, but it was a trying 
moment, and the temptation strong — I exclaimed: ‘Oh! 
see that mouse ! * Then up we both jumped, and in that 
wild chase after the imaginary mouse we got over that 
stiffness and sat down, feeling quite at ease with each 
other. 

Of course you see — and now I am coming to the point 
at which I aimed so long ago — that if quantities of people 
are in the parlor, there will be no opportunity for a grand 
mouse chase or a spider hunt,” 

Exeunt omnes. 

Aren’t you glad ? and also that there is a prospect of 
seeing my affectionate adieux somewhere on this page ? 

I shall write you if there are any further developments 
in the “ romance.” 

You certainly are interested. If not, why never mind. 
I am. 

Yours always, with love, 

Madge Kathait. 


SPIDERS AND RICE PUDDING. 


11 


CHAPTER II. 

S. Hilda’s Convent. 

My Dear : 

There have been no further developments in my ro- 
mance. I sometimes linger in the neighborhood of the old 
tree, but all to no purpose. There is no gay cavalier, no 
violets, no billet-doux ; not that I care anything for any of 
these things individually, but taken collectively and as a 
whole, they entertained me, and I would not one bit mind 
a repetition of the idyl. 

My last letter from home brought me anything but 
agreeable intelligence. There is a report — I rejoice that it 
is nothing more substantial, may it long continue to be a 
report — that Mr. Stanworth is about to return to his 
maternal estate. Alas ! poor I, I could weep with pity for 
myself. Not only do I deplore the low estate to which I 
fall upon the appearance of this piece of lordly humanity, 
but I bemoan the loss of the rocks and the trees and the 
rambles. 

I wish the lost — it was the least he could have done — 
had not allowed himself to be found until after the summer 
had passed. For two or three summers now I have been 
undisputed monopolizer of all the charming places about 
Elmwood — the lake, the park, the forest. The old eagle’s 
nest overhanging the river was my favorite haunt. 

Since I was a child more than half of the summer have I 
spent there. There I have dreamed my pleasantest dreams, 
built my loftiest air-castles, and been thoroughly idle and 
happy. But now this man, with his fast horses (perhaps), 
his gun and dogs (doubtless), his six feet (possibly) of 


12 


SPIDERS AND RICE PUDDING. 


lordly humanity is coming, and therefore I must spend the 
summer in the house or in our little arbor in the garden. 
The more I think of it the more unforgiving I feel — the 
more melancholy I grow — that man! What will he care 
about the rambles, the park, the lake? He won’t appre- 
ciate the beauties of the place. Heirs never do. Every- 
thing bores them. They go everywhere and see every- 
thing, and care for nothing. 

My dear old sweetheart, I wish you would come and 
make me a visit next summer. Perhaps together we can 
make ourselves so formidable that the redoubtable heir will 
depart for parts unknown, and leave Elmwood for us. How 
awfully selfish I am ! Poor old Mr. Stanworth would be so 
rejoiced to see his grandson, and I am wishing he would 
never come. I will take back everything I have said, and 
hope that he may come. 

But the principal question now is, will you come? You 
can desert Tom and the precious babies for a few weeks, I 
know. Coax the infants to sleep for a few weeks. There 
is nothing like sleep for children ; even you, fond of argu- 
ment as you are, cannot deny that; and as for your hus- 
band, let him sew on his shirt buttons and mend his 
stockings for a while — it will amuse him, if it does prick his 
fingers and ruffle his masculine temper, and, what will be 
more to the purpose, teach him a thorough appreciation 
of you and your housewifely virtues. Come, do say 
you will come ; you shall dine on violets and cream, 
and butterflies’ wings, with the latest novel for des- 
sert, or I may have an inspiration and learn to decoct 
nectar and ambrosia for your delectation; but perhaps you 
would prefer roast beef. No matter, only come and you 
shall have what you will, even if it be dissolved pearls. 
Haven’t you always admired the sublime indifference with 
which Cleopatra thus dispensed one earring, making the 
other useless ? Judging from the tantalizing effect the sight 
of one glove, whose mate is among the missing, has upon 


SPIDERS AND RICE PUDDING. 


15 


me, Cleopatra being a woman, albeit such a magnificently 
regal one, must sometimes have gazed with regret upon that 
mateless earring. But how did old Egypt’s queen creep in- 
to this letter. I know, at present, I have but one idea in my 
mind, but one word ready to drop from my pen, and that 
word is come. In what way can I allure you to leave your 
pleasant home for our quiet one ? Are you interested in new 
dresses, and shall I tell you about my new one ; at least the 
one I am to have for the close of school. It will be a daz- 
zling fabric I fear, and altogether too fine for a school girl. 
Shall I tell you what it is to be like ? ‘ A splendid silk of 

foreign loom’ (made somewhere in America probably) 

‘ where like a shoaling sea ’ (did you ever see one ?) the 
lovely blue played into green ’ — but mine, alas ! is not to be 
‘ thicker down the front with jewels than the sword with 
drops of dew.’ But if it only were ! But will you come ? 
Will you sacrifice yourself for your friend ? Will you make 
me happy ? 

Yours with haste, with nonsense, with love unbounded, 
and a kiss; two if you like, and three if you will kindly 
accept. M. K. 


CHAPTER III. 

When 1 I was a small child in pinafores, my greatest pro- 
pensity was for running away. 

Mr. Stanworth’s beautiful flowers and fountains seemed to 
represent a bit of fairy land to me. 

One day I succeeded in escaping from my nurse. How 
well I remember the half guilty, half exulting feeling with 
which I bounded down the lawn until I came to the part of 
the hedge where I knew that by dint of much pushing and 
squeezing, I might possibly insinuate myself into wonder- 


14 


SPIDERS AND RICE PUDDING. 


land. After a short but decisive battle with the thorny 
hedge I came off victorious, but with many a scratch and a 
torn frock ; but what cared I ? Had I not reached the 
other side of the hedge, the goal of all my childish aspira- 
tions. For a moment I looked at the wonders before me, 
undecided whether to explore the grotto or the lake first, 
but finally chose the latter; and in accordance with my 
usual habit of tumbling down stairs and out of bed, fell into 
the lake. That I am now alive to tell the tale is due to my 
vigorous screaming, which brought Mr. Stanworth himself 
to my rescue. 

He carried me, a poor, drenched, repentant infant home in 
his arms, and from that time until his death Mr. Stanworth 
seemed to have a peculiar affection for me. 

He lived at the great house with servants only, and I sup- 
pose was lonely, and rather enjoyed the task of amusing me. 
After my bath in the lake I was sick for many weeks, and 
nearly every day a servant would come from “ Elmwood ” 
with fruit or flowers for me; and sometimes Mr. Stanworth 
would write a note, asking if there was anything he could do 
for “ Little Runaway,” which was always his name for me. 

One day, when I was nearly well, he came himself and 
carried me back to the house, nurse following in the rear, 
for she could not recover from her original idea that he was 
some stern Cyclops, and the lake a cruel monster determined 
to swallow me. However, before the summer was over, I 
was perfectly at home at the beautiful place, and perfectly 
happy. I played with Rollo, the dog, rode on old Prince’s 
back, sat upon Mr. Stanworth’s knee while he told me won- 
drous stories. Sometimes when he was particularly good- 
natured he would ask me to stay and take tea with him, and 
what fun it used all be for me, and how much I loved him. 

Mr. Stanworth spent his winters in the city, and at 
Christmas gladdened my heart with a box of good things. 

One day, when I was about ten years old, he said to me, 
“ Now, Runaway, I am going away to stay for a long time, 


SPIDERS AND RICE PUDDING. 


15 


perhaps a year; what shall I give you to remember me by, a 
watch or a horse ? ’ 

I am afraid I was not a modest and properly behaved 
child, for instead of protesting against being bribed into re- 
membrance, I said in an animated way, “ a horse, if you 
please.” A few days after the horse arrived, and not a horse 
alone, as that would have been quite useless, but with it a 
phaeton. 

When I was older I was told something of Mr. Stan worth’s 
history, of his beautiful daughter to whom he was devoted, 
who married against her lather’s will, in consequence of 
which he disowned her, and that she had gone abroad to 
live. After many years, when the father had forgiven her, 
and longed to have her back with him again, he had searched 
for her, had made every attempt to find her, but in vain. 
On the other hand, it was said that he knew where his 
daughter was, and often went to visit her, but would never 
allow her to come to his house. 

After an absence of five years Mr. Stan worth returned. 
While he had been abroad he had sent me many beautiful 
presents Every one remarked, upon his return, that he 
was looking very sad and careworn ; to me he was the 
same kind friend as of old. Often in the evening he would 
ask me to sing some little song for him. Fortunately sing- 
ing was a3 natural to me as breathing. 

One evening I had been playing and singing for him. 
Finally he brought me from a closet a pile of music ; the 
sheets were yellow with age. On several pieces of music 
were written in a girlish hand, “ Maria Stanworth,” on 
others only the initials, “ M. S.” _ 

Mr. Stanworth told me to take the music home and learn 
some of the songs, especially requesting that I would learn 
“ Annie Laurie,” that old, old tune. 

After I had succeeded in learning it I was expected to 
sing it through for him before I closed the piano, or the 
organ, for it sometimes happened that he would go up to 


16 


SPIDERS AND RICE PUDDING . 


the chapel, the room which had the greatest charm for me, 
the richly -stained windows, the dim light, and the rich 
paintings, making it very attractive. 

It had been many years since a chaplain had resided in 
the house, and the chapel was seldom used. Sometimes, as 
a great favor, I would beg to go there and play on the 
organ. It was not often I dared to ask, however, as Mr. 
Stanworth always accompanied me. There were evidently 
painful associations connected with the chapel, for after a 
visit there he would be more than usually sad and pre- 
occupied. 

One day he came with the great key of the chapel in his 
hand, and said that he should be away from home all day ; 
if I liked, I might practice for a little while on the organ. 
This I was only too glad to do, and spent the greater part 
of the afternoon in the chapel. 

Finally I closed the organ, locked the door, and went 
home. 

That evening about nine o’clock a messenger came from 
“Elmwood” with a note, which begged that a servant 
might bring me to Mr. Stanworth for a little time. 

This was a strange summons for such a late hour. 

Mr. Stanworth was sitting in the library. “ Forgive me, 
dear Runaway,” he said, “ for sending for you so late in the 
evening ; but I feel, not sick, but still not quite well, and I 
am so anxious to give something into your keeping before 
I die. I shall feel much happier when I have given you 
this.” As he spoke he took up a package of sealed papers, 
put them in an ivory box, locked it, and then said, “ I know 
of no one with whom I can more safely trust these papers 
than with you. Will you promise that if ever my grandson 
is found — he you know will be my heir — you will give this 
box to him. It contains important papers. Dear child, 
promise me you will do this, and I know I can trust you. 
I would not have sent for you to-night, but you know an 
old man’s life is uncertain. Now all anxiety is removed. 


SPIDERS AND RICE PUDDING . 


17 


You have the box, and have promised if ever my grandson 
comes to claim my property, to give the box to him. If he 
never comes, which is, alas ! more probable, destroy the box 
and papers before you die. Now good-night; I shall 
expect you to-morrow afternoon to see the pictures I bought 
to-day in town.” And so I left him. 

The following morning when I awoke, I was told that Mr. 
Stan worth was dead. 

When we heard the particulars of his death, they were 
to the effect that he had retired soon after I had left him. 
He said he was very tired, and would probably sleep late. 
When the servant went as usual to his room in the morn- 
ing, he found him dead. 

Mr. Stan wort h had been a kind, affectionate friend to 
me, indeed. Outside of my family he was my only friend. 
As I had no companions, now he was gone, I felt utterly 
wretched and miserable. 

The funeral was a very quiet, simple one. Besides the 
servants and myself, there were no mourners. Pains had 
been taken to have the notice of the death put in several 
papers, and the funeral had been delayed as long as possible* 
in hopes that the daughter, if she were alive, might see the 
notice of her father’s death. But no, the poor old man was. 
buried without a relative to mourn for him. 

The day after the funeral I received a note, saying that 
Mr. Stan worth had left a request that I would be present at 
the reading of his will. The note was signed by Mr. Stan- 
worth’s lawyer, who lived in the city, but whom I had seen, 
as he often came to “ Elmwood.” I will try and give you 
the substance of the will in a few words. It is a very per- 
plexing affair, and I am afraid I shall not be able to make 
it clear to you. 

First, I was to be the heiress of Mr. Stanworth’s property. 
The income of half a million was to be paid me every year 
until I was twenty one — imagine that. When I was of age 
I was to have control of the property and live at 1 Elm- 


18 


SPIDERS AND RICE PUDDING. 


wood.” Until that time the place was left in charge of the 
lawyer. Two of the old and trustworthy servants were to 
live there. 

I was to have the use of the library, and to roam over the 
grounds as I chose. Every room in the house except the 
library was to be kept locked, only opened once a week, 
when everything was to be well dusted and aired. Every 
year, on the anniversary of his death, Mr. Stanworth re- 
quested that if it were possible I would go to the chapel 
and play Mozart’s Requiem. I was not to do this it it 
would put me to any inconvenience, or would be disagree- 
able to me. Only on that day was the chapel to be 
opened. 

Now I must give you the conditions. “ If at any time 
my grandson is found, if there be full and reliable proof 
that he is indeed my grandson,” then he is the heir, and 
all the property reverts to him; everything , if he is un- 
married ; if he is married he has ten thousand dollars and 
two horses, and I have everything else. Again, if he is 
married I am not to give him the ivory box, but destroy it. 
Then, again, you see it is a complicated case, if the heir 
does not come I can only keep the property by remaining 
unmarried until I am a maiden of thirty. If I marry before 
that age, thereby forfeiting the property, and no grandson 
has appeared, the riches are to endow a public library — that 
is all. Do you understand it ? I must confess I hardly 
do, certainly not the conditions. 

Imagine me supreme mistress of half a million for perhaps 
three years, then a grandson appears and gobbles up the 
property ; or no heir comes, I roll in wealth ; but perhaps, 
just barely, perhaps, I — can’t you guess the rest. I have a 
charming little romance. In fact, to be brief, I love some 
one and am loved in return. Shall I give myself away, a 
poor, penniless bride, or wait until I have reached the in- 
teresting age of thirty before I say I will marry, and then 
find that none wants me, except, perhaps, the one I want not. 


SPIDERS AND RICE PUDDING. 


19 


I wish he had left me a few books or pictures, and not 
worried me with all these riches ; at least that is the way I 
sometimes feel ; perhaps the next moment I shall be dream- 
ing dreams of untold delight, and glorying in my wealth. 
It is very delightful, certainly, to have a bank account ! 

What a very different life mine would have been if Mr. 
Stan worth’s daughter had behaved herself. We were poor; 
probably after I had obtained what education I co\|ld by 
dint of much study and few advantages, I should have had 
the enviable position of teacher in some school ; but now, 
thanks to Mr. Stanworth’s generosity, I am quite independ- 
ent ; for a time, at least, until this heir, whom no one wants, 
appears. 


CHAPTER IV. 

I never imagined or dreamed that he cared especially for 
me, although he has been here so much all the summer and 
autumn. As I look back on the last few months, how happy 
they have been — but wouldn’t they have been just as pleasant 
without Dana Stevens ? The sunshine, the flowers, the woods, 
the drives, these have been all that have made the summer 
such a happy one. I don’t think I have cared for him; and 
he — he — how did it happen that he loved me? I thought it 
was nothing more than friendship, a warm friendship, until 
yesterday. I am certain a thought of his loving me never 
entered my head until he asked me — at least he said — 
no, he asked me an important question. I was surprised, 
and stupid, insufferably stupid that I am, I said — what did I 
say ? It seems to me I said, “ Why ! Mr. Stevens, I never 
thought of such a thing as being your wife ! ” and then 
I rushed into the house. We were in the garden. 

It makes me blush all the rainbow hues to think of my 
behavior; such undignified, childish, foolish, unpardonable 
conduct ! 


20 


SPIDERS AND BICE PUDDING. 


I am glad I was so indifferent to Dana Stevens ; unworthy 
as the thought is, I believe he wanted only my money. Cer- 
tainly if he had felt any love for me, he would show a little 
sorrow; but not a bit of it. He calls as often as ever, talks 
away to the family, and sometimes completely ignores my 
presence, as though I were a mere child. When he does 
condescend to carry on a conversation with me, it is in a 
most indifferent tone. He never had a bit of love for me in 
his hfitrt. It is a good thing I was sensible enough not to 
give him my hand. 

I believe I hate him ; yes, I know I do. Hate the man ? 
yes, I detest him; I wish I could think of a stronger term to 
express my hatred. How could the man presume to ask me 
for my heart, the wretch ! It would be a pleasure for me to 
tell him to his face that I hated him. I believe I will; then 
perhaps he would laugh at me ; I would be furious then. 

I cannot understand myself. One moment I am ready to 
say I hate Mr. Stevens, the next I am wishing I hated him 
as I feel I ought to do. If anything, he grows more and 
more indifferent to me, and I, goose that I am, I admire him 
most when he most ignores me and my presence. Cer- 
tainly I don’t love him; that would be nonsense; but I 
cannot overcome a certain feeling of admiration for him. I 
suppose it is the pure contrariness of my woman's nature. 
But Dana shall never know that I have any other than the 
coolest, calmest, most indifferent regard for him. 

When he is near me, it is my one and sole object to bear 
as close a resemblance to an icicle as is consistent with 
politeness. Sometimes I even forget to be polite, he exas- 
perates me so with his nonchalant ways. 

For instance, to-day he drove up to the door. I sat on 
the piazza shelling peas. When I keep house I shall have 
peas every day in the year — not for the sake of eating them,. 
I would rather eat shoe-buttons — but I shall have peas for 
the sake of the shelling. It is such delightfully satisfactory 
work — there is nothing like it when the week’s stockings 


SPIDERS AND RICE PUDDING. 


21 


nre darned. I will protest to the last, at the risk of making 
myself very unpopular, that darning stockings is charming 
work. But I was on the piazza shelling peas, and Dana 
Stevens was before me in his carriage. I think I have never 
before seen him look handsome, but this morning he looked 
almost handsome, if not quite so. As I saw him driving up 
the avenue, I thought to myself, perhaps he is coming to ask 
me to take a morning drive with him. Indeed, I had quite 
made up my mind that he would ask me, and I was balanc- 
ing the pros and cons of the case, something after this 
fashion : — “ Shall I say ‘Yes,’ and go, or shall I say ‘No,’ 
with an easy don’t-care air, and perhaps provoke him and 
arouse him from his indifference ? ” 

I turned these questions over in my mind, taking side and 
front views of them, and finally decided to adopt an impe- 
rious air, and reply to his invitation in this strain: — “ No, 
thank you, it is too warm for a drive this morning ; I prefer 
staying at home and reading,” thereby giving him to under- 
stand that I did not care to have a drive with him, nor a 
call from him. 

My plan was laid, and I was even exulting in the little 
revenge I hoped I was to have when Dana was at the door. 
Throwing the reins to the ground, he sprang from the 
carriage and seated himself beside me, and began to use my 
peas as bullets to throw at the kittens, which were sleeping 
beside their mother. 

Finally he said : “ I thought of asking you to drive with 
me over to Millwood, but I saw Mr. Woodleigh out with 
his stylish greys, and concluded he was coming for you, so 
I will take poor Miss Sealing with me ; she seldom is well 
enough for a drive.” 

Cool impertinence ! Taking it for granted I would go, 
of course. I was so taken back, my wits deserted me, and 
I sat speechless, until starting up, scattering peas in every 
direction, I said: “Well, I hope Mr. Woodleigh will come 
for me. I think I shall change my dress, and be ready for 


22 


SPIDERS AND RICE PUDDING. 


him. I am longing for a drive, and especially for one be- 
hind Mr. Woodleigh’s dashing steeds,” and off I ran. I 
hoped I was perfectly cool and indifferent, but I am afraid 
I was in a fluster, and that my cheeks were red as peonies. 

I left Dana alone with the peas, sincerely hoping that 
Fanny would not know he was there, and so the giant 
would be left alone to his own wicked devices. Let him 
sit there and throw peas at the cats all the morning, if he 
likes ! 

Presently Mr. Woodleigh came tearing up the drive, and 
soon I -was down stairs again, trying to look supremely 
happy, all the time feeling very heavy as to the heart. 

I did not condescend to bestow even a passing glance 
upon Dana, but chatted away to Mr. Woodleigh like a 
magpie, all the while, hypocrite that I am, hating him in 
my heart for interfering with my ride with Mr. Stevens. I 
hope Mr. Woodleigh enjoyed the ride more than I did; but 
I doubt if he did, for 1 was as contrary and capricious as I 
could be. If Dana Stevens had been within hearing I would 
have been all sugar and spice, that if possible I might arouse 
a faint, dim spark of jealousy ; but left alone with Mr. 
Woodleigh, whom I like well enough, but not much, I was 
as disagreeable as I could be, and wished every bad wish 
conceivable, short of a neck-breaking for him, for hindering 
my ride with Dana. 

I begin to think I am worse than any of those riddles pro- 
pounded by the Sphinx. I am of all creatures the most 
fickle. I don’t think alike upon one subject two days in 
succession. 

A month ago I liked Dana Stevens just as I like John, 
not a bit better. Now I cannot hear his name mentioned 
without changing every conceivable hue and shade of 
crimson. Sometimes at the table I am in perfect agony, 
thinking every moment that John opens his mouth he is 
going to mention Dana Stevens’ name. If he does, I am 
covered with confusion; then Fanny and John look side- 


SPIDERS AND RICE PUDDING. 


23 


ways at me, until I am ready to throw the castors and all 
the bottles at them both, individually and collectively. Do 
they think — do they dare to think — I am in love with him ? 
I shall take extreme pleasure to show them they were never 
more mistaken in their lives, poor deluded mortals. 

They are not plotting any nonsense of that kind for me, 
for marry I cannot, because no one will want me when I 
have reached the unromantic age of thirty, and if I marry 
before that time I shall be obliged to give up all my 
grandeur, and I am too much of a sinner for that, unless, 
perhaps, if Dana should ask me again — if — 

Pshaw ! I hope he won’t. He will be spared another 
rude refusal if he does not ; and of course he won’t ask ; I 
am sure I hope not. Yet I wonder, viewing the question 
in a very matter-of-fact way, would I say, “Yes.” Ill con- 
sider the matter, and see if I have sufficient nobility in me 
to give up my wealth for a lover. But first, before I can 
carry on a successful argument with myself, I must be con- 
vinced that I love Dana Stevens. But I do not, so that 
ends the controversy without any more words. However, 
I don’t think I could give up my money — I am too worldly ; 
I do not care to lose my prestige, and instead of being the 
fine lady with horses and a carriage, as many silk dresses 
as I like, plenty of “ loves of hats,” and any quantity of 
attention, with New York in the winter (when I am older), 
and Saratoga in the summer ; instead of revelling in all this 
splendor, which I am wicked enough to enjoy, I become 
simply Madge Kathan, with not a cent to my name, and 
then I shall have to teach, I suppose. Pleasant prospect ! 
“ Confession is good for the soul,” or I never would have 
exposed my failings in this reckless way, making myself 
despised. And yet, if I loved Dana, and if he should ask 
me again ! I don't believe I like money so well that I 
would sacrifice my happiness. But why should I worry 
myself with these thoughts ? Dana does not care for me — I 
*.m positive he does not, because he acts just the same as he 


24 


SPIDERS AND RICE PUDDING 


did before he asked me, and not at all the conventional, 
rejected lover way. 

I wonder what it seems like to be in love. Do you feel 
perfectly indifferent to the person you love when you are 
with them, unhappy when you are away from them ? What 
has become of my knight of the woods, and why did he 
never appear again. I think I might — but never mind. 

I wish Dana would show a little regret. It is rather 
mortifying, but then no one but we two know anything 
about it. How Fannie and John would tease me if they 
knew anything of it. 

I wonder if Dana will ever 


CHAPTER V. 

And I am home again after two long years of study at 
dear old S. Hilda’s ; but after all it is pleasant to be at 
home. 

Engaged ! Dana Stevens engaged ! Three words spoken 
in as many seconds, but words which fall upon my heart 
with crushing, terrible force. Where is the bright sunlight ? 
Where are the birds, the flowers ? A moment ago this earth 
was a paradise, but now everything looks black and awful. 
I can only repeat these cruel words: Dana Stevens en- 
gaged! I sit with my work in my hands. I believe I am 
outwardly calm. 

I cannot think — I cannot speak. It is well I cannot. If 
I should open my mouth my tongue would utter those 
words which ring through my brain — those four words — 
and then what should 1 say ? what Holland has said for 
me : — 


SPIDERS AND RICE PUDDING. 


25 


“ Tlie day is quenched, the sun is fled. 
****** 

There is no good — there is no God. 

God has forgotten the •world.” 

Are they wicked, blasphemous words? Well, so is my 
heart just now a wicked, blasphemous one; it is burning, 
throbbing, beating with sinful thoughts. 

How can I be thankful enough that no one can read 
my heart? No one shall never know I loved him. I can 
hardly believe that I do, but I suppose the love has been 
growing upon me these two years. 

I might, so contrary am I, have been perfectly indifferent 
to him if he had shown me any love ; but to be told that he 
is engaged to another ! I believe 1 hate him ; I wish I did. 
Oh ! if only from this moment all memory of him could be 
blotted out. 

But it is a mistake — it is only a rumor, like the false 
ones we have of the finding of the lost heir. 

I will not believe one word of it. I have been home over 
a week now, and what a perfect one it has been ; and has 
Dana not said, in all but words, that he loved me ? He has 
not been indifferent and disagreeable as he used to be. 

The hot, scorching tears rush to my eyes, but they shall 
not fall. I would die sooner than by tears acknowledge my 
grief. Yet what a blessed comfort just now to weep and 
weep until there were no more tears. 

An hour ago I was dreaming my happiest day dreams, 
and now? Would I have ever dared to wake this morning 
if I had known what the day would bring forth ? 

When I returned home, eager to see all my old friends, 
there was one whom, of all others, I was most eager to see, 
and yet, strange contradiction, I most dreaded to see. How 
could I hope or expect he would care for me now, as he 
once had seemed to do, in spite of his nonchalant ways. 

For two or three days I would not leave the house for 


26 


SPIDERS AND RICE PUDDING. 


fear I should meet him, as when I thought of him, such ex- 
cessive fits of trembling took possession of me that I 
thought — If I meet him, and he, perhaps, is cold and stiff, 
I, foolish child that I am, may blush and stammer, and re- 
veal what for worlds I would confess to no one. 

But finally one day — can I ever forget it — Dana came for 
me for a drive. Perhaps he knew I hated a formal call, and 
that our first meeting would be so much more unrestrained 
if we rode. Then if there are any little awkward pauses, 
when it is utterly impossible to think of ever so simple a 
sentence, when ideas seem entirely to have vanished, and 
words to be numbered among the lost arts, then if one is 
riding, the ever-varying, changing landscape often kindly 
suggests a topic. 

That day, however, there was no need of friendly land- 
scapes to make suggestions. The time was all too short for 
the different bits of news. 

Dana had recovered from his former supreme indifference. 
Yesterday, only yesterday, I was so happy. The day was 
a perfect one throughout, with a charming drive in the 
evening to crown all. 

This morning I was up at six o’clock. I was too happy 
and light-hearted to sleep. Before breakfast I had filled 
all the vases with flowers, and given the birds their break- 
fast. 

After breakfast I went to the sewing room. When 1 am 
particularly happy I like to sew, and think, and dream. One 
can dream so deliciously while putting a dainty hem on a 
handkerchief, or the lace on some ruffles. 

Shall I ever be again what I was this morning, a happy, 
light-hearted girl? No, never. I feel already thirty, and 
my eyelids are swollen and red with unshed tears. I 
know, in spite of all I can do, I look wretched, and pale, 
and unhappy. 

The only way I can keep from a good cry is to put cold 
water on my nose. It sounds ridiculous, but i't is very effect- 


SPIDERS AND RICE PUDDING. 


27 


ual — it even almost makes me laugh. I wish I could laugh. 
This morning, while we were sitting there sewing, Dana 
drove by with a friend. He saw me at the window, and of 
course lifted his hat, and then mother spoke of him. 

She cannot know how much I love him. If she had 
known, could she have said, while with such precision she 
laid the gathers of one of the ruffles of my new white dress — 
I hate the dress, I will never wear it — “ It is said that Dana 
Stevens is engaged,” and as the needle laid the next gather 
it looked like some frightful, murderous instrument. I 
don’t know why, unless because my eyes had fastened 
upon it for the moment, and as my heart stopped beating 
for a second, everything grew large and awful to me. 

There was a dead silence. I know now the horrors of 
that moment in which the condemned man receives his death 
sentence. 

Y ou scorn, perhaps, the idea of a breaking heart, and so 
have I until to-day. I do not say now that my heart is 
broken. I only know that I have but one definite idea, and 
that is the wish to die. 

Why will not the heart stop beating when all hope is 
gone ? Must I go on from day to day in the same routine ? 
Must there be breakfast, and dinner, and tea ? Certainly 
not ; who can care to eat ? Must I go to church, and re- 
ceive calls, and look cheerful, andjgay, and unconcerned? 
It will kill me. I wish an earthquake would swallow us 
all up. 

I think it would have been real relief if mother would 
only have cried and looked gloomy. But she sewed away, 
looking distractingly quiet and easy until I could not endure 
the agony another moment. I must walk, run ; I must get 
in the open air. 

Mechanically I dress myself, say I want to make a call on 
one of my friends, and start out. I walk, and walk, and 
walk, but I cannot tire myself. I only clench my hands 


28 


SPIDERS AND RICE PUDDING. 


more and more tightly together, and repeat again and again 
those fatal words. But while I am crossing the bridge, I 
hear a quick step behind me, a step I know so well, and 
Dana is beside me. I almost have raised my parasol to 
strike him; but he quickly takes possession of it, and raising 
it, holds it over my head. 

Do you wonder why I allow him to walk beside me, 
chatting and laughing in his usual gay fashion ? I cannot 
tell how I was able to walk quietly beside him, to answer 
his sallies in almost as gay a tone as his own. Only how 
hollow my voice sounded, and once, it seemed, he must 
read my heart. 

These were my thoughts as nearly as I can remember 
them. 

“ I do not believe one word of it. Dana engaged ? In- 
credible ; it is all an awful mistake. 

“ Why does he look at me so earnestly ? I almost wish he 
could know the terrible struggle which is going on in my 
heart. 

“ I feel as though I were literally crushed to the earth, 
and yet I am talking and laughing as gayly as he is.” 

“ I did not know before that I could dissemble so well. 
How glad I am that I have succeeded. But why should I 
not be gay ? What difference is it to me that he loves 
another, is engaged to some charming girl ? I am sure I 
don’t care, for am I not already beginning to hate him, to 

despise him, to yes, to love him madly, devotedly. 

Nosv I wish I could, from this moment, forever despise 
him, instead of feeling that never have I loved him more 
than at this time. 

Shall I ask him if it is true ? I must ask him. I vrill 
know the truth. And yet how dare I do it ? Can I listen 
calmly while he tells me of her ? Can I congratulate him ? 
Can 1 fail to show that every word he says in her praise 
cuts me like a sharp knife. And then again if it is not 


SPIDERS AND RICE PUDDING. 


29 


true ? How my heart bounds at the thought ! I am afraid 
my joy would be too intense to endure in silence, and to re- 
lieve the strain what foolish thing might I not do, or say, 
which would betray me ! 

“ He does not guess, I know he cannot, how much I care 
for him, for am I not always saying some disagreeable 
thing, for the very reason I love him so well ; for that reason 
I am so anxious to conceal my real feelings, often paining 
him and surprising myself by some hateful speech.” 

These were some of my many thoughts as 1 walked beside 
him. 

N ow we have reached our gate. Dana says : “ Madge, I 
am coming to take you for a drive this afternoon. Will five 
o’clock be too early for you ? ” 

“ No; but you need not come for me, because I will not 
go, and I hate you ! ” 

There, at last I had exploded. After one quick, defiant 
look at his face I rushed into the house. Not until I had 
reached my room, and locked my door, did I realize what I 
had said. Then to have been able to recall those rash, mad 
words, I would have given a year of my life. For the re- 
mainder of the day I knew not what I thought or did. I 
think, perhaps, I was as nearly crazy as it is possible for any 
one to be, without being entirely so. 

Will Dana ever come near me again ? Will he not ask 
an explanation of my words ? It would, however, be use- 
less for him to do so, because I can give no explanation. 

I hope he will never come near me again. But how dark 
the future looks without him. No more pleasant walks or 
drives, no more quiet talks. 

What evil spirit prompted me to say what I did to him ? 
I cannot realize, I cannot think that I said to him, “ I hate 
you ! ” Yet those words are ringing in my ears, and I know 
I must have said them. 

We might, in spite of all, have been very good 


30 


SPIDERS AND RICE PUDDING. 


friends, the best of friends in time. After a little while I 
should have resigned myself to a fate which many and many 
a woman has accepted. 

“ My fate is the common fate of all. 

Into eacli life some rain must fall, 

Some days be dark and dreary. ” 

Perhaps better this than some other sorrow. I still have life 
and health, and all my life, now I look back on it, has been a 
selfish one. I have lived entirely for myself. This sor- 
row will lift me out of myself, I hope, and give me higher 
aims. 

I would have liked the happiness to have lasted a few 
years longer, but the struggle has only come a little earlier 
to me. Is it not better so ? No, it is not better so; I can- 
not be resigned, and I will not try to be. What have I 
done that I must be punished in this way, that the rest of 
this summer, of all my summers and winters, must be made 
up of long, joyless, dreary days. 

It is some comfort for me to write although I am in such 
a contradictory mood. I ought not to put my thoughts on 
paper. 

Mother looks at me a little bit questioningly. Does she 
suspect that I loved him ? Does she notice that my eyelids 
are swollen, although by some great effort of the will not 
one tear has fallen. Not one word of this will I ever tell 
her, because if she knew my misery, I could not endure the 
scorn with which she would speak of him. 

He is noble ; I will never believe otherwise. He has 
only been a kind friend to me. How could he know that I, 
in my foolish heart, would love him so well? He may 
have thought once that he loved me. I suppose he did or 
he would never have asked me to be his wife. But he prob- 
ably does not know how to be thankful enough that I 
refused him then, now that he sees what a worldly mortal 
I am. I have found out that he knew the conditions of the 


SPIDERS AND RICE PUDDING. 


31 


will — that I lost the money if I married before I was 
thirty — so of course it was not my money he wanted, as 
I once basely thought. 

I have always said there ought to be free and unrestrained 
friendship between a man and woman, as well as between 
two women, without it being taken for granted that they 
were lovers. A man with clear, practical views of life can 
often do much to lift a woman’s thoughts above sentiment- 
alism ; while a woman, by her quiet influence, can lead a 
man to strive only for the things which are noblest, pro- 
vided, of course, that she be noble herself. 

Friends we might have been ; not at present, I know. 
For weeks and months it would have been impossible for 
me to see him, but now he will never forgive my inexpli- 
cable words, and we shall not meet again, or only as 
strangers. 

It is nearly a week since I have had courage to think suf- 
ficiently to write anything. Writing is now my only 
resource. It would be a slight relief to tell all my griefs to 
some one. To what person would I confess an unreturned 
love. 

Dear Fanny sees I am not as I used to be ; but she does 
not question me, and for this forbearance I am truly thank- 
ful. 

Her womanly tact protects me from much annoyance. 

Instead of forcing me to talk, she quietly takes a book 
and reads to me something entertaining, or else she relates 
some incident of the day in her gay, amusing style, or, which 
I infinitely prefer, she plays some soothing traumerie or 
sonata. 

What a comfort it was to-day when the bustling Misses 
Hodges were announced, that she immediately told me to 
lie down, while she would entertain them, and make some 
reasonable excuse for my absence. *' 


32 


SPIDERS AND RICE PUDDING. 


Last night she brought in “The Weekly Times,” and 
said : — “ There is a very clever article in this paper, written 
by ‘ Rex.’ Every one is wondering who this ‘ Rex ’ can be, 
and admiring his brilliant style.” 

Then she read me the article — strong, earnest words. 

I imagined when I read the article, which first appeared 
over that signature, that Dana was the author, and one day 
I ventured to ask him if I was correct in my surmises. 
When I knew that he wrote the articles, I took the greatest 
delight in criticising them, and many an argument have 
they caused, as I argued often merely for the sake of the 
argument, and not from any strong convictions I might 
have on the subject ; and, moreover, being rather impatient 
of a long process of reasoning, I usually acknowledged, to 
bring the matter to an end, that I hated to argue, and 
wished he would change the subject, which he said he was 
only too glad to do, as he did not think I knew very much 
about arguing. Sometimes he would condescend to ask me 
for a subject for his next article. I am so glad that this 
week he has written upon the subject I suggested to him 
some time ago. 

I try to keep busy, that there may be as little time as 
possible for thinking. Sometimes the effort to keep quietly 
on with my duties nearly overpowers me. 

It is a terrible lesson, but I think I am learning it — per- 
haps not meekly nor patiently. When I begin to feel a 
little resigned, and willing to bear the burden of life as 
cheerfully as possible, my heart gives a great leap, and for 
one moment I think that for the last few weeks I have been 
living in some horrible dream. I say to myself, “ I know 
he loves me.” This makes it so much harder. If I were 
only certain , which I cannot be until Dana himself tells me 
so, although I know it is much better. Indeed, all that re- 
mains for me to do — to persuade myself that he is engaged. 
I only delude myself with a vain hope when I think it 


SPIDERS AND RICE PUDDING. 


33 


doubtful. The sooner I persuade myself that the rumor is 
correct, the sooner will the struggle end. Yesterday some 
one who called spoke of the young lady to whom Mr. 
Stevens was engaged. Oh ! what a tempest it aroused 
within me. Every one, every one knows, and has known 
for a long time, perhaps, that Dana is engaged. I only have 
been in ignorance of the fact. 

As this person spoke of the engagement as an estab- 
lished fact, now for the moment I hated him, I fairly scorned 
him. 

It seems to me that, if anything, I love him more than I 
ever did before. I am so glad no one can say of me that, 
“ She is dying of a broken heart.” No, although God only 
knows how earnestly I long for death. My pride shall keep 
me up. There is no reason why any one should die of a 
broken heart. 

Only twenty ! and people sometimes live to be over 
ninety years old. Seventy years more ! It seems a long 
time. Yet, perhaps, when I am fifty I may — what do 
people generally do at that age ? — break their hips as a 
general thing, which will be painful, I suppose, but not 
fatal. I may have apoplexy, but twenty from fifty leaves 
thirty years. Thirty years of this hum-drum existence, 
when these last few weeks have dragged along like a hun- 
dred years. 

I shall try to set all my faculties to work to do the best 
and think the best I can. 

Some one has written “that there are many characters, 
not the worst of mankind, which are improved by a great 
trouble, a real heart agony. It splinters off the hard, 
cold pinnacles of pride, of selfishness, and of ignorant self- 
esteem.” 

How much we might learn from common, every-day 
things if we would. This morning I was rummaging through 


34 


SPIDEBS AND BICE PUDDING. 


an old trunk in the garret, trying to find something for 
mother. As I turned to come down the stairs, I glanced 
through the window, and exclaimed aloud, “ What has hap- 
pened ? ” A few moments ago I was in the garden, and 
if not enjoying the beautiful day, was still conscious that 
it was a bright and sunny one; now everything is in the 
shadow; there seems to be a gloom wide-spread over hills 
and trees; but in the next instant I saw the reason of the 
apparent gloom — the old garret window was covered with 
dust. It naturally suggested to me the fact that Martha’s 
broom and the garret were not on very intimate terms, but 
I think it gave me a useful suggestion likewise. There 
are still beautiful things in the world, things worth living 
for, unless I persist in looking at life rebelliously and 
discontentedly. 


CHAPTER VI. 


My Dear : 

Did I ever confess to you my most delusive delusion? 
Of course not. Now listen, or rather read. 

I positively refuse to write another word until you have 
established yourself in an easy chair, put on your most ami- 
able expression, and determined to be generally agreeable 
and not at all critical. 

Now to my thrilling, heart-rending ’fession. I have never 
had any wild, Utopian ideas of reforming mankind, nor do 
I plead guilty to pet theories in regard to teaching, house- 
keeping, or managing children, nor am I striving for the 
ballot for women. Do not grow impatient ; I am gradually 
approaching the subject in hand, and after turning a few 
more corners, intend to bring you face to face with my de- 
lusion. 


SPIDERS AND RICE PUDDING. 


35 


You know” ’tis but natural to hesitate before touching 
upon the subject nearest and dearest to one’s heart. I 
thought, I imagined, I supposed, at least I knew I could — 
oh ! I cannot express myself in the proper manner. I 
really must defer my story until I am with you. Then 
I can put my head in your lap, and with your arm around 
me I can tell you all in a few words. It shall be in the twi- 
light that I contide in you. It is then so much easier to 
share one’s thoughts with another. 

It has often seemed to me that if I tried I could write as 
well as some other people who write very poor stories, or 
very good stories, as you like. So one day, feeling, as I 
always thought I would feel if I were inspired — don’t think 
I am demented, that was a part of my delusion, to imagine 
myself inspired, when, in fact, I never was, nor am I ever 
likely to be. But write I did, and write I would. 

I vainly thought I could write a novel, although I often 
wonder how there can be room in this world of novels for 
any more. 

I think it was a passage from one of Miss Mulock’s books 
which gave me the idea that as long as there were young 
hearts, there would be novels, and as long as novels were 
written, I would attempt one. I think the passage was to 
this effect : — 

“ Love is the pivot upon which the machinery of life turns. 
One would think this always new, never old subject, ‘ love,’ 
would at last become exhausted, and novels die a painless 
death ; but I suppose as long as the immortal spark kindles 
in every breast, stories and adventures which wind and 
enfold hero and heroine in many difficulties, will continue to 
be written.” 

Taking this for my text and incentive, I actually began a 
novel. It is with regret I now think of the time spent with 
my folly, and its untimely end. 

Possessed with the idea that I was going to produce 


36 


SPIDERS AND RICE PUDDING. 


something unique in the shape of a heroine, I first deter- 
mined she should not be a poor, blind Miss Finch, with a 
nitre-consuming lover, nor an Edna Kenderdine, obliged to 
make over her last year’s hat; nor yet a patient, heroic 
Agnes, meekly pining for her David ; nor a Dorethea 
Graham, deserted by brother, uncle and lover. A dim, 
shadowy idea floated through my mind of a creature de- 
voted as Evangeline, graceful as Margaret, beautiful as 
Pauline, witty as Beatrice. 

Resolved to introduce my heroine to the world, I pre- 
pared my writing materials, and pen in hand, awaited an 
inspiration. 

It came. I dashed through pages of foolscap in a reck- 
less way. I wrote with visions of renown, of fame, and of 
bank notes in the future. Then I read my work, and found,, 
alas ! some things about my heroine which I did not like 
to see. She must cry, but for the life of me I could not 
easily and conscientiously take the inflammation out of her 
eyes in half an hour, and before the arrival of her lover. 
Nothing worked harmoniously. 

The hero made love in such a soft manner I despised 
him, and threw him in the fire ; so novel number one was a 
failure. 

With another effort I also failed, miserably failed, in 
working out an intricate, delightful net-work of troubles, 
trials and poverty, finally crowned wdth love and prosperity. 

Then I commenced another, in what I considered a very 
taking style, and somewhat after this fashion : — 

‘'Deep liis love lies in my heart, 

As they lie in the well,” 

murmured a young girl to herself, and chanted it slowly, 
stopping after 1 heart,’ to count the petals on a daisy. 

“ Loves me, loves me not. Loves me. You dear white 
petal, to whisper anything so sweet, you shall be framed in 


SPIDERS AND RICE PUDDING. 


37 


gold or set in pearls. Oh ! dear, sweet petal. But vrfio 
loves me ? If there had only been one leaf more to disclose 
the future hero. 

“ Mamie, dear, you had a lover once. What was he like ? 
and will mine be like yours ? 

“ I will tell you w r hat he must be like. First, then, he 
must be most divinely tall, but not divinely fair, with dark 
blue eyes and not dark hair, but only light hair, quite dark, 
and a mustache, and strong hands,” then, bursting into a 
clear, rippling laugh (borrowed expression), Fanny Lathrop 
stops for breath. 

This I thought all very pretty, but then I was distracted 
by conflicting ideas. Who should appear as her fate ? A 
young college youth, handsome but conceited ? A poor 
doctor, noble, but wearing a threadbare coat ? A middle- 
aged widower, rich, but possessed of six small infants ? An 
old gentleman with a wig? I could not decide upon a 
hero, or if he had been found, how should I have managed 
the love-making ? 

The proper time would entirely depend on the age of the 
wooer. It would be a trying matter to ask a woman the 
privilege of being her husband in the broad sunlight, 
especially if the suitor be middle-aged, and has false teeth 
and a wig. The broad, honest sunlight would make all 
these little discrepancies so distressingly apparent ; while 
on the other hand, the gentle, considerate twilight — cer- 
tainly twilight would be the required time. But while I 
write, it unfortunately occurs to me, and at the same time 
demolishes all my twilight theories, that people have pro- 
posed in broad daylight. 

For instance, in “Little Women,” the Professor and Joe, 
and the blue cotton umbrella, and ragged gloves; and 
again, the prettiest little love scene in fiction — the one be- 
tween John Westlock and Ruth Pinch — twilight of the 
highest order could not improve that. 


38 


SPIDERS AND RICE PUDDING. 


But I am really growing sentimental. No, I shall never 
write a novel; there is already trash enough in the world. 

As I am sure I would not rise above the weak style of the 
ordinary novel writer, I will not make the fruitless attempt. 
One of my friends once told me she was going to write a 
novel, and that she intended to have a duel and two mur- 
ders in the first chapter. If she goes on in increasing 
ratio to the end of the book, the work will be altogether a 
startling one. 

Giving up novels in dire despair, I finally wrote short 
stories, which were not such a tax upon the ingenuity. 
But even writing a short story is a trying matter. Usually 
the first chapter glides olf very well, but when the chapter 
second confronts you (me), I am in a wild uncertainty, and 
vainly ask myself, which way can I turn; shall I let all my 
characters come tumbling on the field of action at once, or 
shall I dole them out by degrees ; and the more often I ask 
myself the question the more formidable it looks, until 
after balancing my pen between my thumb and forefinger 
for about fifteen minutes, I lock my desk wisely, or I write 
something and somehow foolishly, then I copy the produc- 
tion beautifully, and invest in enormous envelopes. 

After much debating and considering what magazine I 
should honor, I would at length decide upon one wUich I 
thought would jump at the chance of enriching their columns 
with my brilliant (?) thoughts. Then, after much writing 
and re-writing, I would finally produce a note, which I 
deemed quite capable of melting the stoniest heart of the 
most unrelenting editor, and with a trembling hand dis- 
patch my precious missive. 

Alas ! alas ! it seemed to me I had scarcely safely dis- 
patched my envelope, with its valuable contents, in the 
letter-box, before back it returned to me. Oh ! sad fate. 

My inspirations brought me naught but disappointment. 
Finally, ah ! happy day, instead of returned manuscript came 


SPIDERS AND RICE PUDDING . 


39 

a delightful note, saying that ray article had been accepted, 
and would in due course appear in print. 

Can you picture to yourself my joy and my amazement ? 
One of my productions was to appear in print ! I thought 
seriously of giving the editor a pension for life. I was only 
detained from sending him a note of thanks by the 
proprieties. 

Are you not anxious to know the subject of my article, 
nay, that to read my effusion you would give — now what ? 

Is it any satisfaction to know the subject ? Know then that 
I wrote about “A Jacquiminot Rose.” 

There is, however, a sequel to the tale, which you may 
like to hear. One day, perhaps a week after the magazine 
appeared in which I made my small literary debut, I re- 
ceived a bunch of the most magnificent jacquiminot roses. 
I wish I could give you an idea of their surpassing beauty 
and luxuriance. 

I feasted on roses, figuratively speaking, I revelled in 
roses, I breathed, inhaled and dreamed roses as long as they 
lasted, and when they faded, as fade they must, I pressed 
them. Treasuring locks of hair and pressing flowers, is not 
the way of giving vent to my sentiment, so when I tell you 
I press flowers, you may know they are very fine ones. 
When you visit me, you may inhale their perfume, as the 
“ odor of sanctity ” still lingers about them. 

Accompanying the flowers was a note, which ran some- 
thing after this fashion : 

“ May I hope for my roses as warm welcome as you 
gave your one jacquiminot ? ” 

Indeed you may, sir, or madame, or whomever or whom- 
soever you may be. I am completely mystified. 

Who sent me the roses? Deep unfathomable secret. 
The Eleusinian mysteries were as nothing in comparison. 

And that’s all — the preface, beginning, middle, end, ap- 
pendix, and index, of my delusion. 


40 


SPIDERS AND RICE PUDDING. 


Because “ My Jacquiminot Rose ” was accepted, I thought 
I was to become immediately famous. But the manuscripts 
I had returned to me by editors who coolly but politely, 
rejected my efforts to enrich their magazines. 

Show me an editor, and you show me a creature who lives, 
I know not how, but certainly that important organ, the 
heart, does not enter into his composition. He breathes in 
some abnormal way. How, t cannot attempt to state ; in- 
deed I would much prefer dropping the subject, as an editor 
is a being about whom the less said the better. 

Don’t you think so? Yes, certainly; so here we agree, 
and I think I had better seize this amicable moment to pre- 
sent you with my fond adieux. 

Madge Kathah. 


CHAPTER VII. 

Dear old Journal! You are my greatest friend and 
comfort. In your ever ready ear I pour all my complaints. 
I could not live without you. 

I am tiring of this inactive life. I wish I could do some- 
thing. In this busy world there must be something for me 
to do. 

Home is woman’s sphere, is the cant phrase. I would 
have liked a home of my own. How happy I could have 
been in it, but my lot is not to be that of a happy woman. 

But what can I do ? I think I will adopt one of my old 
and cherished plans of having several immense pockets in 
my dresses, and then I will have them filled with candy, 
which I will shower upon delighted and surprised children, 
deluding them with the idea that the fairies have returned 
to the earth. Think of the delight of dropping a handful of 
chocolate caramels into the unwashed hands of some little 


SPIDERS AND RICE PUDDING. 


41 


street beggar, and the surprise and pleasure of the little 
urchin ; it would make her happy probably for a whole hour, 
and it would be a source of perpetual happiness to me, be- 
cause I would always have a supply of candy on hand. 

The affair assumes a cheerful aspect ; and besides shower- 
ing candy, I will help the poor girls who are doomed to 
live day after day in stores and factories, and have such 
hard, comfortless times. Yes, I shall be, in time, a quiet, 
f dignified, antiquated maiden lady, surrounded by cats and 
poodles. 

I suppose the sooner I find something to occupy me, some 
work to do, the sooner I shall find contentment, and at least 
a tolerable degree of peace. 

I do not think I could ever undertake teaching, it requires 
such an enormous amount of proper behavior, of everlasting 
propriety. 

I think I must beg or borrow a little taste for some kind 
of work, and carefully cultivate it, so many avenues of work 
are open to women ! I might adopt a profession. 

A certain small character in one of Dickens’ works is 
asked what he will do when he is a man — “I shall go into 
the army, or into top-boots.” 

Doubtless I shall do something equally as brilliant. 

I might even take a class in Sunday-school; that would be 
something. But my enthusiasm in teaching the Bible van- 
ished after my attempt to teach a little four-year-old the 
twenty-third Psalm. In spite of expostulations and ex- 
planations, the little witch would persist in saying, “The 
Lord is my Shepherd, I do not want Him.” 

How I am doing nothing to help any one, nothing to 
make any one else happier, nothing for my own improve- 
ment — what a list of nothings ! 

This horrible selfishness ! Oh ! to forget myself for a 
time. 

It is only with a great effort I can exert myself to be half- 


42 


SPIDERS AND RICE PUDDING. 


way agreeable at home. And yet I try hard. I do not intend 
that they shall think I have any heart trouble . 

It has been a bright, beautiful day, calm and peaceful. 
Upon such a day I think Longfellow wrote : 

“O gift of God, O perfect day, 

Whereon shall no man work, but play ; 

Whereon it is enough for me, 

Not to be doing, but to be” 

I am glad I have discovered that it is possible to teach 
ourselves almost any kind of discipline we wish. Our hearts 
may ache. The mere mechanical part of us may laugh or 
sing, and the world not suspect the pain. Our hearts may 
be as far removed from the rest of us as the north pole from 
the south. These words come so easily to my pen, I suspect 
I have read them somewhere. 


CHAPTER VIII. 

My Dear : 

You ask in your last letter what Fanny and I are doing? 
Why, what all sensible people in the country do. We ride, 
drive, ramble through the woods. Sometimes of a moonlight 
night Mr. Montgomery takes us out for a row on the river 
when the moon is doing all that can be expected of her to 
make things look beautiful. Usually, however, we are de- 
liciously quiet and lazy. Quiet, because this place is too 
near the city to be a resort for fair damsels and white mus- 
lins, for dashing swells and guns and fishhooks, for manoeuv- 
ering mammas and complacent papas. 

Don’t breathe it, but I think Mr. Montgomery and Fanny 
are both inclined to a mild flirtation. 

He is — a hero. Oh, dear no. He is tall and broad, possesses 
a round face, a deep voice, a rolling gait and unbounded con- 


SPIDERS AND RICE PUDDING. 


43 


fidence in himself. When he enters a room it is in a manner 
suggestive of hurricanes and whirlwinds ; all the chairs sud- 
denly appear frail, weak and altogether incompetent to sup- 
port his immense frame. You are in a horrible uncertainty 
whether he will crush the cat first or smash the mirror. 
Then the promiscuous manner in which he hurls his bits and 
scraps of ideas and information at you. 

When he leaves you feel as though you had had a lively 
argument with a bear — an intelligent one, however. Some- 
times this Bruin calms himself sufficiently to sit at the piano, 
and play some of Beethoven’s beautiful sonatas, or he will 
sing a German ballad. 

Fanny, as you know, does not play; so this morning at 
Mr. Montgomery’s request I played a modest treble to his 
thundering bass — one of Weber’s waltzes. 

Afterwards we discussed our favorite musical authors. 
I preferred Chopin, and could anything be cooler than 
Bruin’s remark — “ Then pray, why do you not play his com- 
positions with more taste and expression ?” I do not dislike 
his cutting remarks altogether ; ’tis a little change from the 
compliments gentlemen, at least most gentlemen, think it 
their duty to pay ladies. 

Mr. Montgomery would almost come up to my ideas of a 
manly man if he would not persist in wearing rubbers so much. 
One expects a man to wear heavy boots and make plenty 
of noise ; he does this latter, to be sure, but it is because he 
is so clumsy and has such a predilection for smashing. 

Last night he brought us quite a library — Macaulay’s 
Essays, Emerson’s “ Society and Solitude,” some of the “ Lit- 
tle Classics,” Sidney Smith’s “ Wit and Wisdom,” and 
“Daniel Deronda.” I am confident I shall never feel the 
least interest in a hero who can boast of no better name 
than Daniel . George Eliot delights in all these antediluvian 
names. When she writes again, doubtless it will be to exalt 
some Ebenezer. 


44 


SPIDERS AND RICE PUDDING. 


When I take up one of her books it is with the same feel- 
ings that I should experience if about to enter a dissecting 
room. 

She analyzes feelings and motives without mercy. But 
who could not afford to dissect the human character without 
mercy or quarter for sixty thousand dollars ? 

If I had an eloquent pen I think I should “ burst into 
rhetoric.” 

For a day or two we have been camping out on the shores 
of Lake W aramang — a more charming spot it would be diffi- 
cult to find ; but I spare you a description. Imagine to 
yourself so many beauties that nature seems to have ex- 
hausted herself, and you have the place. 

We have rowed, and bathed and fished ; at least I sat 
patiently on the shore for two hours, and was at last re- 
warded for my loss of time and increase of freckles and sun- 
burn by a sunfish, which obligingly allowed itself to fall a 
victim to my fishhook. I am glad I acted upon Mr. Kramer’s 
advice, and restored my poor fish to the bosom of its family. 

I wonder if Fanny is beginning to care a little bit about 
Mr. Montgomery. I notice she never mentions his name 
if she can help it, and if I speak of him I can detect a faint 
blush on her cheeks. 

She ought to rejoice that she can keep a blush within 
proper limits, and not allow it to suffuse face and neck, and 
even hands. When I blush, which I have a most exasper- 
ating way of doing, often without cause or provocation, I 
think I must be an object of commiseration to all behold- 
ers. My only way of crushing an incipient blush is to 
fasten my eyes on the wall and count the figures on the 
paper, as fast as possible. 

The farmers have commenced haying — and I rejoice there- 
at — as the click of the mowing machine is music to my ears. 
Another summer sound I like is the hum or buzz of the 


SPIDERS AND RICE PUDDING. 45 

locusts or grasshoppers — I don’t quite know which insect it 
is which delights my ears with its dreamy, lazy notes. 

To-night we are all to ride out to some mountain, where 
the prospect is very fine — provided the neighboring country 
can furnish the required number of saddle horses. As I am 
a miserable rider, I would much prefer remaining behind, 
and sincerely hope I can. I have a most melancholy remem- 
brance of a certain dismal ride upon an antiquated pony, 
which was bereft of one eye, and also a good share of his 
tail. This, to begin with, was not reassuring, but I hoped 
speed would make up for these little deficiences. 

I mounted the animal, and away we ambled, or rather he 
ambled, and I attempted a mild expostulation, endeavored 
to suggest the impropriety as well as the difficulty of at- 
tempting to travel at right angles with the road ; even if he 
had but one eye, he ought to hold up his head and follow 
his nose. We “ ambled ” for a quarter of a mile, although 
it lives in my memory as a mile or more, when a bright idea 
evidently occurred to my Dobbin; for he turned tail and re- 
traced his steps with an energy of which I supposed him 
incapable. I had no time for reflection or suggestion, for in 
a trice we were in the barn from whence we started. I 
don’t speak of that trip now, although like the proverbial bad 
penny, the memory of it often returns to me. Still if there 
are horses enough I will venture to join the party to- 
night. I know of nothing more exhilarating than a canter 
on horse back, provided the animal has the usual number of 
eyes and a sufficient amount of tail. Shall I tell you of our 
ride in another letter? Yours ever. M. K. 


46 


SPIDERS AND RICE PUDDING. 


CHAPTER IX. 

The first eight miles of our ride we all enjoyed. I cannot 
tell when I have felt so light hearted and happy. 

One can hardly look at the broad expanse of sky, the 
noble mountains and all the beauties of field and forest, and 
entertain any selfish thoughts — only a happy thankfulness 
that God has given life and senses to appreciate the beauti- 
ful world. 

For the first time in many weeks I was comparatively 
happy. Then, suddenly, in an instant, I was almost con- 
vulsed with terror, for Fanny’s horse had taken fright, and 
was tearing down the road at a terrible pace, and then she 
was thrown to the ground. 

She was unconscious. Mr. Stevens carried her to a 
cottage near by, and then returned to the 'village near the 
lake, for a physician. The promptitude and decision with 
which he acted w r as marvellous. Mr. Montgomery was in 
advance of the party; so knew nothing of the matter, until 
Fanny had been taken to the cottage. 

Mr. Stevens had only come up to spend the day. I 
wonder if he would have come if he had known I was of the 
party. We bowed very coolly, we could not do less. I owe 
him an apology, but — what can I say to him ? I should 
only make the matter worse ; so I will say nothing. He 
will only be here a day or two — perhaps not so long — and 
the party is so large that we need not come in contact. 

What a very lion in strength he must be ; he lifted her as 
easily as though she were a baby. 

It seemed ages before the doctor came. Fanny’s arm and 
wrist were broken. Mr. Stevens returned with the doctor. 


SPIDERS AND RICE PUDDING . 


47 


As they entered the room, I glanced at Dana, hut he seemed 
quite unconscious of my presence. Evidently I was ignored, 
for not one look or word did he vouchsafe to give me. I 
had never seen him look so manly and handsome before. 

I think I must have been nearly as pale as Fanny herself, 
for finally Dana said : “ Miss Kathan, let me beg you to go 

into the next room while the doctor sets your sister’s arm ? ” 
This in a voice perfectly calm and unconcerned, as though 
he had said: “ You look as though you were going to faint, 
but don’t, it will put us to more trouble.” 

I don’t know what I said, or whether I made any reply. 
I know I kept my seat, and thought of my last words to 
him, spoken but a few weeks ago — few as we count time by 
the calendar — but, so long — “ I hate you.” 

These three words have separated us forever, and who is 
the sufferer ? Not Dana evidently, for he could not be 
more unconcerned if I were a total stranger to him. 

He does not know, no one knows, or ever shall know, 
how much I suffered that day. 

At last, as he is going, he turns to me, and says quite 
low — “ I cannot tell how much I regret having annoyed you 
by my presence,” and then he was gone. 

And is this the life which a few years ago seemed so 
bright and gay ? N ow there is nothing but one weary 
leaden day after another. Just as I had begun to take up 
my life to make it a contented one, at least, I saw Dana, and 
now all the old pain has returned. 

This is just such a day one could be thoroughly happy in, 
if — I sometimes think I will give up to this despair, I will 
not try to fight against it. Courage ! 

Some one has declared that all women are born match- 
makers. It is a sweeping assertion, but one which I have 
never quite dared to contradict, although I never dreamed 


48 


SPIDERS AND RICE PUDDING. 


that I could plead guilty to the charge, but now I must con- 
fess that I have been building castles in Spain for Fanny. I 
have dreamed my “love-lit dream,” and my dreaming waked 
the dreamer forever, so now I must solicit the pleasure of 
dreaming dreams and building castles for others. 

W e are home again. Fanny is an interesting convalescent, 
and, more than that, Mr. Montgomery’s promised wife — 
so there is a prospect of a wedding in the family. After it is 
all over I think I will go to the convent for a time — dear 
Sister Matilda has written for me to come and make them 
a visit. 

I think perhaps there, buried from the world, I might be 
quite contented. There everything is so calm and quiet, and 
it would be happiness to be with Sister Matilda. How fond 
all we school girls used to be of her — how we even raved 
over her. She was our ideal of womanly perfection. 


CHAPTER X. 

Content of S. Kilda. 

My journal has been a long time neglected. I have a few 
moments before vespers, and must write down a little of 
my life. 

I must write. I cannot live if I do not. 

This year has indeed been an eventful one. After this 
my years will all be alike, for I am a novice, and in time ex- 
pect to take the irrevocable vows. 

If any one had proposed this life to me a year ago, I 
would have met the proposition with horror ; now I cannot 
be thankful enough that I can bury my life and all my hopes 
in a convent. 

One argument against this life my friends urge, that I will 


SPIDERS AND RICE PUDDING. 


49 


lose all my love for them. This is so far from being the case 
that my heart turns to them with more affection and love 
than ever. 

Dear , I am thankful to say, writes me good letters, 

and is kind enough not to annoy me with questions, argu- 
ments and lectures. The convent is literally buried in the 
forest, although now the trees are leafless, we can catch a 
glimpse of the village nestled at the foot of the hill. 

It seems like being in the world, but not of it, as since I 
came here I have not been without the convent grounds. 

The day of my arrival here I put on the plain black dress 
and white cap which had been prepared for me. 

I must confess to you, dear old Journal, for to whom else 
in the world could I mention it? the holidays were sad times 
for me. My heart was often full nearly to bursting when I 
thought of the vastly different circumstances of the year 
before. It is sometimes hard to think that I have done with 
all gaiety forever. Forever! the word sounds like a death 
knell. 

I was growing very careless and indifferent about spirit- 
ual matters; my great troubles have all been needed to give 
me higher aims. I thought only of temporal happiness. 

Ah ! little did I think my life would be that of a sad nun. 

“Oh ! the love of the All-Father, 

Who with tender, watchful care 
Hides the future from our vision, 

Saving us from wild despair. 

There is the vesper bell, and I cannot write again until 
; to-morrow afternoon. 

My time is fully occupied, and it is best it should be so, 
otherwise my sad thoughts would entirely conquer me. 

The Sister Superior is a tall, commanding looking woman. 
She is at present in wretched health, and looks almost 
ghastly pale. It is only her iron will which keeps her up. 


50 


SPIDERS AND RICE PUDDING. 


She never omits a service, and there are seven services 
each day, and one at midnight, I look at her sometimes in 
amazement, and can realize that not a stake and fagots 
alone are necessary to make martyrs. 

There are many new sisters here. I wish the ones who 
were here when 1 was a scholar had not been sent to the 
other schools. These sisters seem so sad. I wonder if they 
find the burden of life any easier to bear within than with- 
out convent walls. One of the novices is very young, 
younger than I am. Her cell adjoins mine. We each have 
a cell or room. 

I often ask myself, is this the place where I lived only a 
few years ago a happy, light-hearted girl ? My life seems to 
me stranger than a fairy story. 

Nothing more has been heard of Mr. Stan worth’s grand- 
son. I still have the use of the property. N o fear now of 
my marrying before I am thirty. If the money is mine, I 
shall endow the convent. I would like to build a pretty 
chapel and hermitage, but I suppose the Mother will do as 
she thinks best with the property. I shall not attempt to 
dictate. So if the heir has not appeared when I am thirty 
years old, he need not come after that time, as he will find 
his property building convent chapels, and doing much 
good, I hope. 

I have spent the last three days in retreat with the other 
sisters in the house, and about thirty ladies, friends of the 
sisters. I think we should all fulfill our duties better, and 
become more consistent Christians, if retreats were more 
common. If one considers it, it is a startling fact, that in 
the present century we pay little attention to the soul’s re- 
quirements. 

We have matins at midnight ; at six we have prime ; the 
celebration follows. We go directly from chapel to break- 


SPIDERS AND RIGE PUDDING. 


5L 


fast, passing in slow and melancholy procession to the re- 
fectory. The servants are all so well trained that we are 
all served without speaking. I would not have thought it 
possible that forty people could remain through a meal 
without speaking. 

Shakespeare would have been particularly well pleased 
with U9, for “ to be slow of words is woman’s only virtue.” 

We go from the refectory to the chapel to terce, the 
office for the third hour. At the conclusion of this service, 
we go to our rooms and put them in order. At ten we are 
summoned from our rooms by the chapel bell, to listen to a 
meditation, which occupies an hour and a half. We return 
to our rooms. At twelve, sext ; immediately following this 
office is an instruction. At one o’clock we have dinner. 
From two until three we rest, either in our rooms or take a 
walk. At three, nones ; another meditation follows, which 
keeps us in the chapel an hour and a half. Yespers, tea, our 
rooms ; and all this time we never speak to one another. 

In this way we passed a three days’ retreat. 

Strive as I will, I cannot entirely forget Dana, nor can I 
believe that he was or is engaged, although for my peace I 
will try to persuade myself it is so. It is so hard to forget. 
I thought when I left the world I should' be as free from 
these heart longings as though I were dead ; but it is not so. 
As long as I live I suppose I must bear this burden. 

The “ Book of Hours ” is filled with most beautiful and 
comforting things. 

Could anything be more perfect than Bishop Andrews’ 
“ Humility? ” and yet how almost impossible to attain. 

“ Humility is perpetual quietness of heart. It is to have 
no trouble. It is never to be vexed or fretted, or irritated, 
or wounded, or sore, or disappointed. 

“ It is to expect nothing, to wonder at nothing which is 
done to me.” “ It is to be sweetly at rest when nobody 
praises me, and when I am blamed and despised. It is to 


52 


SPIDERS AND RICE PUDDING. 


have a blessed home in myself, where I can go in and shut 
the door, and kneel to my Father in secret, and am quiet as 
in a deep sea of calmness, when all around and above is 
trouble.” 

Shall I ever possess even the semblance of the grace of 
humility ? 

I believe some of the sisters have this blessed “ perpetual 
quietness of heart.” 

Certainly sister Matilda’s face suggests a mind at peace 
with itself and the world ; the patient purity, the calm con- 
tent, the sweetness of her dear face often soothes me. 

’s letter is just received. She asks me why I have 

shut myself up in a “ horrid convent.” 

“ How much longer do you intend living there ? I think 
it absolutely wicked for you, with your youth and everything 
to make life desirable, to become a nun. You can have no 
pleasures, no amusements, no overskirts, no flounces, no 
home ties, no heels to your shoes, no cuffs to your wrists, no 
camel’s hair, no opera, no new spring hat, no will of your 
own, no variety of any kind, nothing but a simple existence, 
a mere breathing; the bare thought of the thing is terrible 
to me. I would not be a nun or a sister more than ten days. 
At the end of that time I should be ready for the cemetery, 
and only too glad to get there. That sounds wicked, but I 
must write it, at least it is written, and I cannot put my pen 
through the words. Forgive me, dear, do. Life at present 
would seem very blank to me. Now I feel myself gradually 
falling down to zero in your estimation ; but I must confess 
that life without a camel’s hair would be quite unendurable. 
I had one for my birthday. I shall appear in all my ele- 
gance next Sunday. I would not write all this nonsense to 
any other mortal on earth, but you understand me, and know 
I am not quite as worldly as this makes me appear. I think 
of sending a small boy on to herald my approach to church. 


SPIDERS AND RICE PUDDING , 


53 


So much splendor bursting unannounced upon an unprepared 
congregation might have a disastrous effect. The boy shall 
just say in a very calm, unconcerned way — ‘ Don’t be alarmed, 
ladies and gentlemen, it is quite a simple dress, only a black 
silk with three bias ruffles.’ This has no noticeable effect up- 
on the audience, then he shall next say, still quite unconcern- 
edly — ‘It’s only a plain overskirt and basque;’ congregation 
still retain their equilibrium, but the small boy, now warm- 
ing up to the subject, says in a more animated tone, ‘ but she 
has a perfect love of a hat.’ Several jealous females are car- 
ried fainting from the church, the gentlemen look wildly 
around and ask with bated breath ‘ when is she coming ? ’ — 
the sexton rushes madly hither and thither in search of an 
awning and carpet. Now the small boy, fully alive to the 
responsibilities of the occasion, shouts with a stentorian voice 
— ‘ She has a camel’s hair ! ’ Who can describe the scene 
which follows ? The church itself collapses with a terrible 
crash, and buries the small boy in the ruins, which is fortu- 
nate, as it effectually prevents his sending in a bill. 

“ Oh ! dear, I’d burn this direful nonsense, but, but if I do, 
when will you have a letter from me ? Echo answers, 
‘ when,’ and so nonsense or not, go it shall, and read it you 
need not. I promise not to be so hopelessly nonsensical in 
my next letter.” 


CHAPTER XI. 


The Content. 

The days seem so long and dreary. The ground is cov- 
ered with snow, and everything is forlorn. But I suppose I 
am as happy here as I would be anywhere. ’Tis a weary 
world at the best. I have the greatest sympathy for people 
when I hear they have committed suicide. Poor things, I 


54 


SPIDERS AND RICE PUDDING. 


know so well what they have suffered — a terrible despair, 
an utter hopelessness. I hope I shall be forgiven, but thoughts 
of suicide have often possessed me. I hope I am thankful 
to a kind providence which has preserved me from this wick- 
edness. I am afraid I am growing worse instead of better, 
I have such terrible fits of despondency. 

Sister Agatha, who is so young, younger than I, is very 
cheerful and happy apparently, but I know she must suffer. 
Her cell adjoins mine, and often she paces back and forth in 
it all night. I long to go to her and comfort her, but we are 
forbidden to leave our rooms after we have once entered 
them for the night. 

Sister Agatha seemed to like me from the first, but as we 
are not allowed to have any intimacy with each other, I have 
never had much conversation with her. One day, when 
we went out for our afternoon recreation in the woods, 
she told me some part of the story of her life. 

She said that when she was seventeen she married against 
her uncle’s consent. Her father and mother had both died 
when she was a mere child, and her uncle was her guardian. 
She had lived with him and his housekeeper until she 
married. I can best tell the story in her own words : — il My 
uncle thought Maurice too poor for me, — he had planned a 
brilliant match for me. I told him I would marry Maurice 
or I would never marry. I did not intend deliberately to act 
against my uncle’s wishes, but I loved Maurice so much ; I 
had no friends, and it was so pleasant to be some one’s 
heart’s desire. That whole summer long was one perfect 
iayl. Oh ! I was so happy, more than happy. If I tell you 
the rest of the story don’t despise me. I am afraid I w r as a 
very wicked child, but I have been well punished. I loved 
Maurice, I cannot tell you how much. Do you think it was 
wrong for me to love him ? ” As sister Agatha said this she 
looked up at me with her beautiful clear eyes so beseeching- 
ly that I could only give her a kiss, and she went on with 


SPIDERS AND RICE PUDDING. 


55 


her story. “ Finally he was obliged to go from home on 
business lor his father. He would probably be away a year. 
He was going to one of the West India Islands. One day 
— it was the day he was to sail, he was going about six o clock 
in the evening — in the morning Maurice took me for a drive 
— our last ride. He said, ‘ Agatha, you will forget me ; a 
year is a long time ; darling, you must be my wife to-day, then, 
you are mine forever.’ I canot tell what spirit possessed 
me. I tremble when I think of the events of that day. I 
hardly know how it all happened, but we rode some distance 
to a little church, a strange place to me, and there we were 
married — and in the evening he sailed away. His last words 
were, ‘ In one year, my dear child, you will see me again, and 
then I shall be your slave ; you shall command and I will 
obey.’ I have never known a happy day since that one. 
My uncle discovered, how I know not, that Maurice and I 
had been married. He was so angry and enraged with me, 
and treated me so hardly, that I begged he would put me in 
a convent. So when I came here I only exchanged a greater 
evil for a less. I have been here two years, and have never 
received any news of Maurice. Oh ! it is terrible. If let- 
ters came for me, as of course they must, my uncle has 
destroyed them. I think the sisters here know my story ; 
that my uncle told them and charged them to watch me, as 
I am never alone one moment except when in my room for 
the night. Once, I was so wretched and in such despair, I 
thought — may God forgive me, but life seemed intolerable, 
and I thought of the river which flows se quietly and calmly, 
and I wished it would let me sail away on its bosom, 4 so one 
night, it was very dark, and about midnight, I left my room. 
I had on my slippers and a cloak drawn around me. I thought 
every one must be asleep. I had reached one of the doors and 
had carefully unbolted it and closed it after me, and was 
half way to the woods on that path, when I felt an arm 
around me, and saw sister Florence was beside me. Without 


56 


SPIDERS AND RICE PUDDING . 


a word we turned, went into the house, and I went to my cell, 
I knew it was useless to resist her, and now I bless the 
providence which saved me from such a frightful doom. Al- 
though I am unhappy and miserable enough, I will try and 
wait God’s time, and not seek my own death. 

“ Since that night my door has alway been locked on the 
outside. I never resist or complain ; I feel sometimes that 
my spirit is crushed — that if Maurice should see me again 
he would not know me.” All this sister Agatha told me as 
we took our afternoon walk through the woods. I am afraid 
the poor child’s heart is breaking. She has taken such a 
hold upon my affections that I long to see her happy. I think 
in her grief, I am partly forgetting my own. I hope I am 
losing some of my selfishness, and not thinking quite as 
much about myself as formerly. 

It seems strange that this husband of hers has never re- 
turned ; he may now be searching for her, or perhaps, but I 
try to think otherwise, he is faithless and false. I am afraid 
my intimacy with sister Agatha has gone beyond the limits 
allowable, but it seems to be a comfort to her to have some 
one to confide in. 


Easter Eyeet. 

If by chance it should happen that I leave the convent 
and return to the world, I hope I may always be able to 
spend Holy Week at S. Hilda’s Convent. One here is able 
to spend the time as one would best like to do. 

During Passion Week our altar was draped in purple; 
after Palm Sunday crape replaced the purple coverings. 
Maundy Thursday evening, at ten o’clock, we had the 
tenebrae. 

The services were carried on in hushed tones of subdued 
sorrow. There were many psalms ; at the end of each a 
light on the altar was extinguished until we were left in utter 
darkness, and repeated the Lord’s prayer and the miserere ; 


SPIDERS AND RICE PUDDING . 


57 


then there is absolute silence. At last a sister brings forth a 
light from behind the altar, and we all rise from our knees 
and depart. 

From six o’clock, Maundy Thursday evening, until the 
same hour Good Friday morning, a vigil is kept in chapel, 
in commemoration of the night of agony passed by our Lord 
before his crucifixion. 

During the different offices, all the sisters are in the 
chapel, but at eleven when the tenebrae was over, only one 
sister remains in the chapel, kneeling before the altar ; she 
remains for an hour, when another sister comes in. My 
watch was between the hours of two and three in the morn- 
ing. I never passed a more solemn hour. The altar draped 
in crape, with only a white crucifix and two candles, gave 
the chapel a most mournful and solemn appearance ; all the 
pictures were likewise draped. On Good Friday we had the 
three hours service from twelve noon, until three. Our first 
vespers of Easter this evening were most joyful and glad. 
The altar was resplendent with flowers and lights ; our music 
was jubilant, and incense was again used. 

To-morrow our services will be even more grand and im- 
posing. 

Some one says, “ Life would be perfect, if it would only 
last.” Ah ! What a happy mortal he must have been who 
wrote that sentence. 

Can it be that in entering the convent, I made a terrible 
mistake ? Alas! I fear I am not fitted for the life. I find 
myself so often dreaming and thinking of the past. The 
Mother Superior says I am too proud-spirited, and although 
she is very noble, and often kind, still sometimes she sub- 
jects me to humiliations ; but I must expect that ; it is the 
test of our character, and what all must endure during their 
novitiate. I am glad they are so good to poor sister 
Agatha ; although they watch her carefully, they are very 
considerate to her. 


58 


SPIDERS AND RICE PUDDING. 


At the end of the year my novitiate expires — then I take 

the irrevocable vow, or I return to what? Home. I 

should be there more wretched than I am here. I hope at 
the end of this year I shall feel more resigned and quite 
willing to take the perpetual vow which binds me to this 
life until death. 

But now there is a dreary monotony, a silent gloom which 
oppresses me to the earth. My dear old Journal, you are 
my confidant, for you reveal no secrets. I could not livo 
without you. 

The prospect of a life in the world at present, I dread 
equally with a convent seclusion. I wonder why I am not 
more at peace. When I first came here I was more calm and 
at rest than at present. But my heart will never be at rest. 


CHAPTER XII. 

Weeks of unconsciousness have passed since those last 
lines were written in my journal. I am only now able to 
sit up an hour at a time. 

I suppose the severity and hardships to which I am ex- 
posed in my present life, together with my great unhappiness* 
brought on the brain fever which brought me almost to 
death. For a week they despaired of my life. 

Sister Agatha, so they tell me, has been my devoted nurse, 
hardly leaving me day or night. She seems more cheerful 
than formerly. Since she has had to care for me she has, I 
hope, partly forgotten her own troubles. 

Why didn’t the doctors and nurses quietly consent to let 
me die ? It would have been altogether better. 

The Mother Superior and I have had a long consultation 


SPIDERS AND RICE PUDDING. 


59 


together to-day. I have told her that as soon as my health 
is fully recovered I will be ready to take the veil. She kissed 
me and said she was glad I had come to such a wise 
conclusion. 

I am glad I have so much money, and can give the sisters 
some things they need for their chapel. First, if it is possible, 
I shall propose that a new and larger one be built. I once 
heard the Mother express a wish lor Murillo’s picture of the 
Assumption of the Virgin ; my first offering shall be a copy 
of that picture. 

The Mother says the physicians think it extremely im- 
prudent for me to stay in this cold climate during the try- 
ing spring months, and order a southern trip for me. As 
the Mother insists upon my compliance with the doctor’s 
commands, I suppose I must prepare soon for my journey. 
A Miss Scott is to accompany me ; then upon my return in 
the summer I shall regularly enter the sisterhood. 

“ Wear black and white, and be a nun like you ; 

Fast with your fasts, not fasting with your feasts, 

Grieve with your griefs, not grieving at your joys, 

But not rejoicing — pray and be prayed for.” 

It is deemed advisable for me to put off my black dress 
and cap for the present. I shall wear very plain dresses and 
no ornaments. We start on our journey next week. 

Avallok, Florida. 

We had a very comfortable journey. I am not quite as 
well as when I left home, but hope soon to be better, both 
in mind and body. 

The doctor occasionally sends his carriage, and Miss Scott 
and I go out for an airing. When I am stronger I am to 
have a saddle horse, as the doctor insists upon it, declaring 
that riding is the best exercise I can have. I can’t say that 
I anticipate my rides with much pleasure. My associations 
connected with riding are none of the pleasantest. 


60 


SPIDERS AND RICE PUDDING. 


As further amusement, we indulge in the light liter- 
ature of the day. My curiosity induced me to invest in “ My 
Mother-in-law” and “Tom,” and several others of the same 
type. They have a way now of manufacturing books some- 
thing as they do Hamburg edgings, with this difference, the 
books have not yet reached the perfection attained by the 
edging. 

We are nearly distracted oftentimes by the united how- 
lings of twenty-five dogs. 

One of our neighbors amuses himself and annoys his 
neighbors with these animals, whose capacity for sustained 
vocal effort cannot be surpassed. 

Sister Matilda writes me kind, affectionate letters. 

This is one of my melancholy days. Life seems almost 
intolerable and unendurable. 

Mr. Smedborg, a German, entertains us with his broken 
English, and pathetic stories. He says he has come to 
Florida to find a grave, but I hope he will not succeed in 
his undertaking. He became very confidential with me one 
evening. I had played for him, much against my will, one of 
Chopin’s waltzes. When I had finished he said, “ Fraulein, 
you hafe played that waltz quite well, quite aggrievingly. 
But why do you laugh ; do I say pne wrong word ? 

“ You would not laugh if you could see mine heart; I had 
the disease, the what do you call it, the affectation of the 
heart. I loved once, so much a pupil of mine, she was so 
schon, so schon as an angel in himmel. How much I love 
her I one day tell her, but she — ach, she shook her head 
and said 1 no that one little word no. 

“ Of course I , could not live, I must die. I thought shall 
I drown myself ? I am so large I should float; I would not 
sink. No, I will starve myself ; I eat no brod. I eat noth- 
ing, I starve, I hope I will die. But Fraulein it took so long 


SPIDERS AND RICE PUDDING. 


61 


I, could not die, and so I eat. Now I hope I die here soon. 
If 1 do not, some day I think I will buy one horse, I will 
ride to Mexico, and there on the battle-field I will die.” 

Poor old man ! He is very kind, and is constantly send- 
ing me fruit and flowers. 


CHAPTER XIII. 


My Dear : 

I have been balancing my pen between my thumb and 
forefinger ; and over this sheet of paper, for — well, not quite 
twenty minutes. 

Do you not deplore the low ebb of ideas ? And now why 
do I write ? I have nothing to say, but I must torment some 
one, and who can I find who will bear tormenting more pati- 
ently than you ? 

What shall I say'first ? I think I will give you a descrip- 
tion of every man, woman and child in the house, giving in 
detail the shape of each nose, the expression of each face, 
the cut of the coat, the shape of the polonaise, the color of 
the eyes, the shade of the hair, the individual and peculiar 
characteristic of each noisy child, with all the infantile say- 
ings and doings for the addenda and appendix. Prepare 
yourself for an epistle which for stupidity will cast “ Pope’s > 
Essay on Man ” quite in the shade ; even “ The Course of 
Time ” will scarce dare lift its diminished head. 

I may throw in gratuitously an account of the capers of 
my twenty-five (don’t say you know ’tis impossible for one 
man to keep so many dogs, haven’t I become sufficiently 
acquainted with their ho wlings to know ?) barking neighbors. 
Shall I ? Yes, but I am not equal to a description to-night, 
so prepare yourself for it in my next effusion. 


62 


SPIDERS AND RICE PUDDING. 


Come, wake up, dear, for methinks I see you slumbering 
in an easy chair while 1 lie unheeded and forgotten at your 
feet — having lulled you to sleep by my extreme length and 
excessive dullness. Are you awake again ? I had some good 
news to tell you, but as you need teasing it shall be reserved 
for my next letter. It is delightful news too — are you cu- 
rious, very curious? Well bend low and I will whisper the 
news. No, sit upright and be curious until the arrival of my 
next letter. I cannot tell you now because it is such very, 
very good news, and you know good news will keep. 

If I tell you I am quite happy again, as happy in fact, and 
more happy than I was ever before in my life, you will be 
satisfied, won’t you ? No ? Very well then, dear, you must be 
humored. I will tell you the news, at least I think I will. I 
reserve the right of changing my mind, if I see you are not 
interested in the narrative. Please give me your attention 
while I rehearse the events of the past week ; no, I must keep 
this a little longer in suspense. 

What can you imagine that is pleasant? A moonlight 
stroll ? Yes, I cannot deny that may be pleasant under certain 
circumstances, but it is not a moonlight stroll which inspires 
my pen, nor strawberries and cream; although they are 
quite well worth a eulogy. Are you growing impatient ? 
Calm thyself, dear. I am slowly but surely approaching the 
crisis. Is it a new dress? How can you ask such a ques- 
tion when you know I am about to give up all such vanities. 

By the way, this is the anniversary of Mr. Stanworth’s 
death. If I were home I should be fulfilling his wish, and 
making the chapel resound with the melancholy echoes of 
Mozart’s Requiem. I have only been able twice to carry 
out his wish in this respect. H shall soon be twenty-one, 
when by the conditions of the will I was to reside at Elm- 
wood. I don’t know what will be done about it. No heir 
has yet appeared, for which I am very glad. Worldly still, 
you see, although I don’t know why I am glad ; you will see 


SPIDERS AND RICE PUDDING. 


63 


when I will tell you my secret that it makes no difference to 
me, for — for — I am as poor, or soon shall be, as though half 
a. million had never had the slightest connection with me ; 
for, for, well — because — can’t you guess ? It seems to me I 
could if you asked me that question, and you were me and I 
were you. You can't guess or you won’t; if the former I 
will tell you , if the latter you shall not be told. 

But now listen. I am going — to Europe? No. Africa? 
No. Arctic Ocean? No. Nevertheless I am going, indeed 
I am going — can’t you guess where ? To China? No, not 
yet any where, — I am going to be married — that is all. 

Good bye. No more now. 

Yours tantalizingly (I hope), 

Madge Kathan. 

P. S. Although they are against my principles and I 
don’t think I have ever sent you one postscript before — so 
forgive this. 

Are you surprised ? I am, and amazed, and cannot tell 
whether I am more surprised than amazed, or more amazed 
than bewildered, or more happy than surprised, or more 
both altogether. M. K. 


CHAPTER XIY. 

Dear old Sweetness. 

Did you receive my last letter written and mailed about 
two hours ago ? 

Did it have the desired tantalizing effect? I hope so. 
Now I am going to reward you with a detailed description 
of how it all happened. 

Two weeks ago, as I have grown quite strong again, I 
thought it time for me to be thinking of a return — a life-long 


64 


SPIDERS AND RICE PUDDING. 


one — to S. Kilda’s. Accordingly I wrote to the Mother 
Superior that we would leave Florida in a few days, and 
go directly to the convent. 

I must say this letter cost me an effort ; it was like singing 
one’s death warrant. It is wrong for me to write in this way, 
but now it is all over. I suppose I may as well say it re- 
quired a long struggle to bring myself to the final decision. 
As I said, I wrote the letter ; it was sealed and on my table 
ready to be sent out by the first mail in the morning. 

I bad spent the day alone, all the family had gone off on 
an expedition to “ Wolf’s Craig.” I had not felt inclined for 
the excursion and so I remained at home. 

Now everything happened in a most romantic way. Really 
’tis such a thrilling tale, I find it difficult to tell you about 
it. You do not care about hearing the story, do you? No, 
that’s a darling, so I won’t tell you any more, only that I 
spent a pleasant half hour in the evening playing traurner- 
ies and sonatas. Do not think my late appeared at this 
auspicious moment, and became enchanted by my pathetic 
soul-rendering chords, trills and runs; for indeed he came 
not then; no one listened to me. I was the only admirer of 
my music, and soon growing tired of it, sat down by the win- 
dow in my favorite position on the floor, and finally I think 
went to sleep with my head in a great easy chair Oh ! this 
is growing too sentimental. I must give up attempting to 
tell you that — that — why you know what happened then. 
Don’t you know that I w^as so wretched, so utterly forlorn, 
so miserably desolate that I cried — no, laugh, if you like — 
until I cried myself to sleep. And there I was on the floor 
asleep when, when — why don’t you know that Mr. Stevens 
walked in ? Where did he come from ? I did not ask him ; 
but how could I when I was asleep. 

But then to be sure I did not sleep all the evening, but 
finally — indeed you are laughing and I shall not ted you 
another word. You ought to be clever enough to guess 


/SPIDERS AND RICE P TJDDING. 


65 


that when I awoke it was — I mean, I was — no, he was — oh ! 
what a stupid letter this is ; I am going to burn it. First 
you may give a guess. Did Mr. Stevens say “ good evening, 
Miss Kathan, I am happy to see you ; quite a pleasant moon- 
light evening ? ” No, not a word of that did he say. Guess 
again ; you cannot or you won’t try. Then I shall not tell 
you what he said ; he thought I was a horrid creature and 
he hated me ? No ; but once I told him I hated him, but 
that was long ago. As nearly as I can remember, the first 
words I heard when I awoke was something like this : “ My 
poor dear child,” and found myself clasped in strong protect- 
ing arms. 

I suppose he must have said something else, but what I 
cannot remember, but some of our conversation was so con- 
fidential, so very confidential, that I ought not to repeat it, 
ought I ? I do remember that he told me he had never been 
engaged nor married, had never loved any other person than 
myself, that he had heard I was going to become a sister, 
and had determined to come to Florida and see me once be- 
fore it was too late, which he did, as perhaps I have already 
said. It did not seem to require much expJaination. 
He knows now why I was so ugly and naughty, because I 
have confessed all my jealousy. He can only account for 
the rumor of his engagement by the fact that his uncle, 
another Mr. Stevens, has recently taken to himself a young 
wife. We do not trouble ourselves much about the rumor, 
however. Everything is blissful now, and Dana says I 
shall only return north under his protection ; it is so pleasant 
and comfortable a thing to be taken care of, that I submit 
willingly even to a “ shall.” 

Perhaps it is heedless for me to tell you that my letter to 
the Mother Superior was not sent. I am now wondering 
how I can best tell her. How fickle she will think me. I 
confess I am glad my communication is to be made by letter, 
although I shall go to S. Hilda’s after my return. I wish I 


66 


SPIDERS AND RICE PUDDING. 


could take sister Agatha to live with us, but I suppose that 
would be hardly possible. At any rate I would not like to 
ask Dana about it, as he is not rich, and depends only on his 
profession, and my money will go. Dana is calling for me- 
to take a drive, so farewell for a time. 

Yours as ever, M. K. 


CHAPTER XV. 


My Dear : 

As you would not come to the wedding, you do not 
deserve a description of it — but there was white silk and 
tulle, and the inevitable orange blossoms and a veil, a short 
drive to church, some quaking and trembling, the wedding 
march, a great crowd of people, two ministers, I in mortal 
dread lest Dana would shout the responses — the dear old 
fellow has such a deep voice, — but he didn’t, nor drop the 
ring either, as I expected he would, nor step on my trail. 
Dana is looking over my shoulder now, or I would not 
abuse him in this way. But where were we ? Oh ! we were 
walking down the aisle like any other married people — and 
that’s all. 

You ought to have been here; you know I cannot describe 
anything, and my own wedding ! Of course then I was sup- 
posed to be raised above all earthly matters, and to know 
next to nothing about the circumstances. 

We have been to the convent. The Mother Superior 
welcomed us warmly. I say “ we ” and “ us.” Mr. Stevens 
would not allow me to go alone to S. Kilda’s, as he is im- 
pressed with the idea that the words convent and nun are 
synonyms for all things frightful. My dear, need I tell you 
that I am glad enough that Dana insisted upon coming 


SPIDERS AND RICE PUDDING. 


67 


with me here ? unless he were beside me I could hardly 
realize but that I were again here as a novice, which you 
know I would have been if — if— ah ! that dear little word 
if, what a world of misery or happiness hangs upon it. 

We were kindly invited to remain for vespers. We had 
a charming ride back again in the twilight, and a little later 
in the moonlight. I am growing a little impatient to be at 
our home — our own home. I imagine the house to be a 
very diminutive affair, quite insignificant, in fact, as Dana is 
so very unwilling to say anything about it. I have several 
times begged him to give me a description of it, but he 
manages so adroitly to change the subject, that I think he 
regrets not having a better home to take me to. However, 
whatever it may be I am determined to make it as pretty 
and comfortable as possible. 

You know I have lost my half million. I told Dana all 
about it, naturally, and he treated the affair in a most indif- 
ferent manner, as though my fortune were of no account 
whatever; so no one can say he married me for my money. 
Before we Tvere married, he said — “ You must consider well 
before you marry me, that I am a poor man. You have so 
long been accustomed to luxuries, are you willing to give 
them all up for me ? ” I said — well, never mind what I 
said, my answer satisfied Dana; that is sufficient. I must 
acknowledge, just to you, dear, that I shall miss my plenti- 
ful supply of pocket money, but then I have a dear, good 
husband who can provide for me all the necessaries of life, 
at least, and that I consider better than luxuries without 
him. I know upon this point you will agree with me. I 
presume his income is not large. We have had no particu- 
lar conversation upon the subject. I am rather enjoying 
the prospect of being the mistress of a dear little box of a 
house, with hardly room enough to swing a cat, but then, 
you know, we don’t want to swing cats. I shall, doubtless 
do my own work, and be absolute mistress of my house, in- 


68 


SPIDERS AND RICE PUDDING. 


stead of being the slave of a mistress, who not only reigus> 
in the kitchen, but extends her sway throughout the 
house. 

In summer I mean to have toast and eggs for breakfast 
always, and in winter buckwheat cakes. That supreme 
abomination of all housekeeping — washing day or ‘‘blue 
Monday ” — shall have no abiding place in my house. 

I do not intend that regularly once a week the house be 
turned inside out and covered with steam, and our tempers 
hopelessly ruffled by washing. How will the clothes get 
washed? Don’t ask me. I’ll give them away, and we will 
have new ones every week. No, that would not be economi- 
cal. I must think of some feasible plan for disposing of the 
clothes. As for house-cleaning, carpet-shaking, stove-moving, 
window-washing, closet-assorting, and various other dis- 
agreeable duties, Dana and I will probably spend a few 
weeks from home every summer, then somebody shall clean 
the house. 

I fear I am making myself very unpopular with you 
by confessing all the proposed short comings of my 
housekeeping arrangements, but house-cleaning and washing- 
days excepted, I shall be a model housekeeper. The broom 
shall always hang on the right nail, the nose of the tea-ket- 
tle point the right way, there shall always be plenty of cake 
in the jar to prevent unpleasant encounters with unexpected 
company. In the autumn I shall lay in a stock of popping 
corn and nuts and apples. One thing you need never expect 
to see on my table — pickled beets — “ mean, cold, old, cussed 
pickled beets.” You know Phebe Cary immortalized them, 
which was giving them altogether more honor than they 
merit. Do you agree with me ? 

Probably you will not hear from me again until we are 
quietly settled in our home. I wish you were to be there to 
welcome us to it. Don’t you think you can manage to leave 
that dear husband of yours ? or, better still, both ol you come 


SPIDERS AND RICE PUDDING. 69 

^ery soon and see U3. Remember you are to be my first 
guests. Yours affectionately, 

Ma.dge Stevens. 

P. S. Don’t come until I have bought a receipt book 
and an egg-beater. 


CHAPTER XYI. 

You have been neglected a longtime, my poor old Jour- 
nal. Our house is small ; indeed it could not well be much 
.smaller without being a bird’s nest. 

There is a parlor ; it is going to be a charming place in 
winter, because we can have a grate fire ; then back of the 
.parlor is the dining-room, with a pretty bay window which 
is filled with beautiful plants, which the gardener from 
Elmwood sent over the day before our arrival. Back of the 
dining-room is the kitchen, at present presided over by Miss 
Fredrika Malburg, a tall, massive creature, who can scarcely 
speak one word of English, while I on the other hand can- 
not speak one word of her German, so that the less said 
about our efforts to come to a mutual understanding the 
better. I presume to call her Rika. “Miss Malburg ” had 
too dignified a ring — “Fredrika” was too suggestive of 
Miss Bremer, so we have chosen the euphonious title of 
“ Rika,” which name is, however, applicable to some sylph- 
like creature. Rika and I have not yet come to that crisis 
where the former expresses her opinion that I am “ no lady,” 
.and the latter says she will put up with no impertinence; 
doubtless we are approaching that shoal of quick sands. 

Ordering the dinner is the most charming part of the 
housekeeping, if Rika only would not look so very im- 


70 


SPIDERS AND RICE PUDDING. 


portant and mountainous, and with such a deprecating air at 
me as though I were a baby. But aside from this discrepancy, 
it is very fine to walk into one’s kitchen and say in an im- 
perious way, “We will have fried oysters and ice-cream for 
dinner (we won’t be so extravagant after a little) ; only the 
sugar barrel or coffee jar has a most provoking way of being 
empty remarkably often. And when in a magnificent way I 
have ordered my dinner and am sailing out of the kitchen, 
Rika invariably dashes cold water over me (metaphorically 
speaking) by informing me of some of these deficiencies in 
the larder. Then out comes my poor purse, and when it 
returns again to my pocket it is a very light and almost 
worthless affair. 

For all Rika looks at me with such a deprecating air, I 
imagine that I look very matronly, with my Swiss muslin 
caps, ornamented with coquettish bows ; then I scowl occa- 
sionally, to make myself look wise and mature ; but Dana 
says that when I am scowling as to the brow I am smiling 
as to the mouth, which defeats my purpose ; so I give up 
trying. 

It is so pleasant to be young, even if Rika don’t approve 
of youth. I suppose I shall grow old fast enough. I dislike' 
the thought, it will be so horrid to have false teeth ; to avoid 
them I would almost wish to die young. A wig I might en- 
dure very well, but false teeth ! alas ! alas ! must I ever re- 
sort to them to help eke out my old age ! 

This afternoon I had the pleasure (?) of giving up to Mr. 
Stanworth’s lawyer all my right and title to the property. 
Still I do not think I showed the least regret before Dana. 
Now, instead of being mistress of the Stan worth property, 
I shall be plain Mrs. Stevens, with but a small domain, one 
servant, no horses, consequently no carriage, not more than 
one silk dress a year (probably), but I know I shall be hap- 
pier than if I were revelling in all the elegance afforded by 
*the possession of Elmwood. 


SPIDERS AND RICE PUDDING. 


71 


I don’t thing I feel in a very pleasant humor this even- 
ing. I wonder if it is because I have been worrying and 
grumbling and stumbling through “ Woodstock.” As much 
as I like Scott’s works they always worry me. I never take 
up one of his works without a mental argument. “Shall I 
read the book ? No, I won’t, it is too long ; yes, I must, 
everyone must read Scott’s books. I must read it.” Having 
brought myself up to the pitch of martyrdom, I take one with 
my eyes shut, knowing that whichever one I take I shall wish 
it had been another, then I open the book haphazard, and 
read, and finally come to “ Finis ” with a sigh of pleasure 
and relief — then I commence regularly at the beginning and 
read up to my starting point. The “Talisman ” I make an 
exception when I say Scott’s works are hard to read — that is 
thoroughly charming. 

Dana’s only great extravagance is in roses — although I 
think he is a little too extravagant in everything. I tell him 
I have to do all the economizing ; but now tie knows my 
passion for roses I am seldom without them. 

The Mother Superior has partly promised to allow sister 
Agatha to spend a month with me. It will do her a world 
of good to get out of those “narrowing nunnery walls” for 
a little time. I cannot endure the thought of her spending 
all her life in a convent. She is so young and so capable of 
enjoying life. 

But I see Dana coming up the avenue, and I must put up 
may writing and go down to meet him. 


72 


SPIDERS AND RICE PUDDING . 


CHAPTER XVII. 


My Dear : 

I AM going to write to you, although I cannot for the 
life of me think of any news. Happy people, and happy 
nations, you know, have no history. 

Everything in the housekeeping line goes on very 
smoothly. Rika, however, holds the reins, and I must con- 
fess to feeling very much like a boarder ; perhaps as I gain 
more confidence in myself as a housekeeper, I shall have the 
courage to assert myself. 

Dana is very good-natured. I know he must feel inclined 
to scold, when the dinner appears in all its scanty propor- 
tions. I know Rika will starve us ; for although Dana pro- 
vides in abundance, it is only by constant remonstrances, and 
even entreaties, I can persuade her to cook enough for a re- 
spectable dinner ; she is altogether too economical ! 

In the matter of warm biscuits, for instance, she is so ex- 
tremely parsimonious, that I must give up having them, or 
else learn to make them myself. Last evening I had two 
friends to tea. I charged Rika to make biscuits enough ; she 
listened with more than her usual attention — her “ usual at- 
tention,” however, is not much to boast of — and I hoped we 
would have a respectable supper. By letting you share the 
family secrets, I am showing my servitude. I don’t believe 
I can keep the girl much longer. I would infinitely prefer 
doing my own work. 

But to proceed with the narrative of the tea-party. 
There was plenty of bread on the table, one plate of biscuits ; 
when they were exhausted, I mean the biscuits, I, not dar- 
ing to ask if there were more, passed the bread, when Dana 
said, “ Are there no — ” 


SPIDERS AND RICE PUDDING. 


73 


I knew how he would finish the sentence, and, at my wits’ 
end, gave him a little kick with my slipper under the table, 
and a look, which, to my surprise, he understood, and wisely 
shut his mouth, and I drew a long breath, and we eat bread. 
This is the dark side of housekeeping. 

Mr. Stevens makes fun of me, and declares I am more the 
servant than Rika, and I think he is right. 

I am writing beside such a pretty writing desk, which 
Dana gave me on my last birthday. He is too extravagant. 
He thinks I miss my former luxuries, while, in fact, I hardly 
give them a thought. I was so wretched with my money, 
or when I had it, that I feel quite contented to be poor, 
although it was pleasant to have a bountiful supply of 
pocket money. 

Mr. Stevens says he would send his love, if he dared — as 
though I were a Xantippe ! He shall have no sugar in his 
.coffee to-morrow for his insinuations and inuendoes. 

Am I not always your loving friend, 

Madge Stevens. 


74 


SPIDERS AND PICE PUDDING . 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

Oh ! it is after all wearisome work, this being so poor, 
with a purse always at a low ebb. 

I suggested this morning to Dana that we dismiss Rika, 
and with occasional help from some strong-armed Bridget, I 
could do my own work. He laughs at the idea, but he must 
understand as well as I, the need of retrenching in some way. 
Perhaps, by dint of much coaxing and teasing I shall gain 
my point, and then behold me absolute and supreme mistress 
of all I survey. 

I intend commencing immediately the manufacture of 
some enormous white aprons, in which to envelope myself 
when I broil the steaks, bake the bread, make the cake, and 
alas ! alas ! that it must be so, wash the dishes. 

At any rate I will only wash dishes once a day. My 
sleeping and waking hours already begin to be haunted with 
visions of dish-washing. But, on second thought, perhaps 
it will be better to engage a woman to come once a week to 
wash the dishes. 

But aprons I must have, as one of my favorite theories is, 
that a woman arrayed in an enormous apron is capable of 
almost anything in the culinary line. There is something 
about an apron which inspires confidence in one’s own 
powers, besides you gain the respect of the eggs; they seem 
to appreciate the fact that you have adopted the text from 
the Bible for your motto — u Whatsoever your hand finds to 
do,” etc. Consequently they allow themselves to be well 
and quickly beaten. You can see by the way the bread 
rises, that you have acquired a new dignity in its estimation ; 
even the mischievous kitten regards you with awe, and seeks 


SPIDERS AND RICE PUDDING. 75 

shelter under a chair, instead of lingering lovingly about 
your feet, as was her wont. 

I never intend to enter my kitchen for any practical pur- 
pose, until I have strengthened and fortified my rather 
inefficient housekeeping ability by an apron. The power 
gained is in direct proportion to the size of said article. 

I think I am anticipating the time of my absolute sov- 
ereignty with much pleasure ; the pleasure, however, is not 
without alloy — as the dishes loom up before me. They will 
be my “rock ahead.” 

This is the day I have chosen for our corned-beef dinner. 
Poor people must come down to the dry facts of life; be- 
sides we rather like corned-beef, at least Dana protests that 
he does, and I, why ! I try to like it, but to-night neither 
Dana nor I could eat any of it, for one reason, we could not 
cut it. This is the first time I have had the detestable dish 
since Rika left, and I suppose it did not get cooked. I 
thought two hours enough for such a small piece of meat, 
but the fire went out in the midst of it all, which must be 
the reason our dinner was in such an underdone condition. 

After Dana’s fifth unsuccessful attempt to carve our din- 
ner, I, who was looking on an interested and melancholy 
spectator, detected a frown on bis face. My poor face was 
burned to a crimson from so much bending over the fire, my 
fingers all reduced to a most forlornly burned and battered 
condition, and now we bad no dinner, or rather it refused to 
be carved ; this was the last straw. I must either cry or 
scold. After a moment’s distraction as to which was the 
best move, I said very angrily and snappishly, “I think if 
you had dishes to wash, the parlor to sweep and dust, and 
stockings to mend, you would be ready to make some allow- 
ance for the meat, besides you are not half trying to cut it, 
you are trying to mortify me. I know I could cut it, and 
so could you if you half tried.” 


76 


SPIDERS AND RICE PUDDING. 


“ Why ! what have I said or done, that you fly at me in. 
such an alarming way ? Really you made me jump.” 

“You know you don’t like corned-beef, and that’s the rea- 
son you won't try to carve it, but now we are so poor we 
shall have to eat it every day. I am sure I don’t care any- 
thing more about it than you do ; indeed I never put a bit 
in my mouth until I came into this house. It is hateful to be 
so poor.” 

The moment I had said these spiteful words I was ready 
to bite my tongue off. I am perfectly contemptible and 
despicable. How pained Dana looked, and how surprised. 
If I had not been so proud, I would have thrown my arms 
around his neck and had a good cry, and then the storm 
would have been over. To think of my making such a fuss 
about nothing. 

We finnished our dinner of half-cooked patatoes, poor 
bread, and weak tea, in silence. 

Directly after dinner Dana went out, saying, he should 
stay out late, and I was not to sit up for him. 

So we have quarreled over a few pounds of corned-beef — 
hateful, malicious, peace-destroying beef — how I hate you 
and all your ancestors. If ever a piece of corned-beef comes 
in the back door of this house again, I will walk out of the 
front one. 

What a simple, foolish child Dana must think me; he 
didn’t know he was marrying a baby ! 

Shall I sit up for him and tell him I am sorry ? Yes, I 
think I ought to — no, I won’t either, he didn’t half try to 
carve that meat, he wanted to tease me. I will go right off 
to bed, and be as miserable as ever I can. 

Perhaps we wont speak to each other for weeks, be calmly 
and politely indifferent to each other, and wretchedly un- 
happy ; at least I shall be. Dana may not care. I am going 
to have a good cry, then I may feel better. 


SPIDERS AND RICE PUDDING. 


77 


But I didn’t feel one bit better, because Dana is so un- 
kind, not really unkind either; he could not be that, but he 
is so sober and so polite, and says very little, and that little 
is said in such an indifferent tone. All married people must 
quarrel sometime, I suppose. N ow we shall go on from bad 
to worse, because I am too proud to speak, and he thinks 
me unreasonable and childish to make such a fuss about a 
mere nothing. 

I will starve myself, and grow pale and thin, and finally 
sicken and die. I will leave Dana a very loving note, but 
will intimate in it that he has broken my heart, but that I 
forgive him. Then he will be consumed with remorse, and 
perhaps take poison, or hang himself, so we both come to a 
miserable end, brought to this direful pass by a corned-beef 
dinner. 

I hope Danna won’t marry again. Who could he marry ? 
There is Carrie Weller. I think I would be more willing, — 
unwilling as I am — that she had my camel s hair shawl (my 
sole remaining relic of departed grandeur), than any one else. 


78 


SPIDERS AND RICE PUDDING. 


CHAPTER XIX. 

Fanny writes that she and her husband will come soon 
to visit us. I sincerely hope she won’t. I wanted her to see 
how fond my husband was of me, and now if she comes she 
will think two sticks more congenial companions. 

Why did I ever marry ? Unanswerable conundrum. I’ll 
give it up, and go and turn the best bed-room upside down, 
and down-side up, and then put it in order again. Happy 
thought ! I’ll clean house, I will have sweeping and dust- 
ing, and baking, and a general overhauling of every movable 
and immovable thing in the house. Perhaps I can make 
Dana thoroughly uncomfortable for a time ; if I am wretched 
he ought to be too ; or wouldn’t it be better to set fire to the 
house ? That might break the ice before Fanny’s arrival. 
She will be amazed to find we have both turned into icicles. 

This morning, at breakfast, Dana said, “Madge, I am 
going to the city to-day ; have you any commands ? ” 

“ No,” said I (in my most snappish style). 

u Very well, good-bye.” 

With that, he gave me a kiss, which had about as much 
affection in it as you would find in a snow-ball. It is all my 
fault, this trouble, which is at the same time both a dis- 
agreeable and a comfortable reflection. Sometimes I think 
I was happier at the convent. With all my work I find no 
time for reading or practising. I don’t know anymore w r hat 
is going on in the world than that poker. When I do get 
time to sit down I must make over an old dress, or trim a 
hat, or darn stockings, or sew on shirt buttons. I wonder 
if Dana’s second wife w 7 ill take half the pains I do with his. 
clothes. 


SPIDERS AND RICE PUDDING. 


79 


Dana insists upon my having Rika back again ; since our 
lively encounter with the beef he has been very anxious to 
have a girl in the kitchen. 

I wonder if the cars will run off the track to-day; perhaps 
so, and everyone will be killed. What should I do if Dana, 
were to die ? I could scarcely be more miserable than I 
am now. 

What a very stupid, foolish affair it is, and yet it is a se- 
rious one, and where it is going to end or how is more than 
I can tell, I do not care so much about dying as I did, be- 
cause it would be so dreadful to have Dana hang himself in 
the barn. 

Rika is again “ clothed in a little brief authority.” She 
still regards me, however, with a very deprecating air. She 
has the same effect upon me that Mortimer had on David 
Copperfield, I feel so u very young.” 

It is a blessed comfort to sit down to a dinner cooked by 
other hands than my own maimed and burned ones. It 
seems to me we have been starving for the last month or 
two. I hope our digestive organs are not impaired for life 
— no wonder Dana and I were so uncongenial. We are still 
somewhat cool and distant with each other. 

Dana probably thinks from that stupid speech of mine, 
that I regret the loss of my riches, and until I make some 
explanation we must remain in this congealed atmosphere. 

We never have any more charming drives together, tor 
two reasons, he won’t often ask me, and when he does I 
don’t often go, as I am tired of discussing such uninterest- 
ing themes as the weather, the state of the roads, the last 
new broom, the next new barrel of flour; so I stay at home 
and mope. I think I look jiale. I wonder that Dana is not 
conscience-smitten. 

I think I will put off my writing and go to the kitchen 
and make a pudding for dinner, Dana’s favorite one ; perhaps 
that will melt his heart; then to help matters on, for I feel 


80 


SPIDERS AND RICE PUDDING. 


very amiable just now, I M ill put on my blue silk and get 
a rose for my hair, and try and be lovely and charming ; at 
least I will be until Dana comes into the house ; then, when I 
see him looking so very sober, I shall lose courage and be 
more stiff and unbending than ever, and so we shall worry 
through another melancholy meal. I find myself counting 
the number of dinners from now until the end of the year; 
lunches are of no account, as Dana is not often home, and 
breakfasts are not so tormenting, because he never cares for 
much, and it is a short meal — but the dinners ! 

What will we talk about to-night ? Things have certainly 
come to a pretty pass — not married six months, and yet we 
can find nothing to talk about. 

I wonder if I am so terrible. I wonder if Dana is disap- 
pointed in me — horrible thought ! I believe it is all my 
fault ; I must be sweet and good to-night. Now I will make 
that pudding; he certainly would appreciate it, if he knew 
the amount of moral courage it required to enter a kitchen 
so strongly guarded as mine. I really feel quite like a cul- 
prit when I go in and modestly demand the eggs and sugar. 
Before I leave the kitchen, I feel fit for a penitentiary, or 
ready to plead guilty to most any crime. I would help my- 
self to butter and eggs, and entirely ignore my encumbrance, 
but Rika has a trick of never putting a thing twice in the 
same place, whereby I am completely at her mercy. 

Evening. 

I made the pudding and had such a nice dinner, and dressed 
myself up finely and waited, and waited until I received a 
telegram from Dana, saying he was obliged to remain all 
night in the city. Then I eat my dinner alone, and now I 
am sitting in my wrapper in my room, and feeling awfully 
unhappy, although I have reason to be quite triumphant, as 
I asserted myself in the kitchen to-day, and made Rika open 
her eyes with amazement. I told her to go to market and 


SPIDERS AND RICE P TJDDING. 81 

order the meat for dinner. While deliberating what I 
should send for, Rika said, “ Shall I get corned-beef?” 

“ No,” I said. I think I must have shouted it, as she fairly- 
started back and looked at me as though I had struck her. 
It had a good effect though. She was as meek as a lamb 
after that, and made me feel quite at home in the kitchen. I 
think I have been too amiable ; I have spoiled her. I must 
be a perfect Tartar hereafter, and deliver all my orders in a 
severe tone. 

There is nothing like being a little imperious occasionally. 


CHAPTER XX. 

It is growing so cool, I think I will wear my new black 
silk to church next Sunday — not so very new either, as it 
was made before I was married — which was several hundred 
years ago, but it will be new here. I must dress up and 
affect a great deal, and cheat people with the idea that I am 
perfectly happy, that everything is supremely blissful at 
home. No one shall know that I am wretched and unhappy. 

How long, long ago it seems since we were married — 
years and years ago. I wonder if Dana does not regret it. 
I would not blame him if he did — such a disagreeable, un- 
reasonable woman as I have developed into ! Dana might 
better have married that Miss Clarke, to whom every one 
said he was engaged. She is his cousin, and as he was there 
a great deal, people, with their usual stupidity, declared 
they were engaged. 

I wonder if she would have made such a cross, snappish 
wife. She would have known better than ever to have had 


82 


SPIDERS AND RICE PUDDING. 


a corned-beef dinner. Any woman with a grain of sense 
would. 

Fanny is not coming in a month yet. I am glad, as there 
may be a change for the better in the domestic atmosphere 
before she arrives. 

Dana spends most of his time in New York. I wonder 
what he finds to do. But much as I would like to know, I 
won’t ask, no, indeed. 

I walked over to Elmwood this morning. Everything is 
beautifully kept up. Did Eve ever have a peep into Eden 
after she left it ? Poor mother Eve ! you can hardly expect 
your afflicted children cherish your memory with much 
affection. 

The gardener gave me a basket of flowers. I wanted to 
go to the chapel, but as I have no right there now, I con- 
tented myseli with a stroll, sat down for a little while in 
the arbor, and then sauntered home, feeling rather forlorn ; 
it is always stupid to come home and find no one ready to 
greet you. I am alone with Pika most of the time. She is 
too much like an embodied nightmare — if any one knows 
what that is — to be any company for me. 

When Fanny comes I shall be happier, I shall have some 
one to talk to. I suppose Dana thinks, if he thinks at all 
about it, that I amuse myself with books and sewing, but I 
have heart for nothing; besides it is not pleasant to read a 
book alone ; half the pleasure consists in having some one to 
talk it over with. 

The other evening Dana said he must go to town again 
in the morning, and would I go with him. 

Anything for a change, so I thought, and accepted his in- 
vitation with more alacrity than was quite consistent with 
the dignified role I am trying to play. I was rejoiced that 
Dana wanted me with him. When, however, I found that it 
was only because he needed me that he invited me, I was 
indignant, and had opened my mouth to say some angry, 


SPIDERS AND RICE PUDDING 


83 


spiteful tiling, when that corned-beef, like a threatening 
spectre, arose before me, and I shut my mouth ; but I expect 
1 looked unutterable things, because Dana said he wanted 
me to sign some papers, that he had some business transac- 
tions in town, that my signature was required. 

He did not tell me whether it was a death warrant or a 
will I was to sign. 

This is unendurable. Has he lost all confidence in me ? 
I won’t go. I won’t be treated s© like an infant; but I sup- 
pose I must go. It would be very foolish for me to widen 
this gulf which is between us. I must resign myself to be 
martyred for any husband’s sake. 

I will sign the papers in a very stoical way, and won’t 
show the least curiosity as to the contents. It will be the 
first day I have spent from home since I was married. 

I will dress myself nicely and look as pretty as I can, and 
perhaps Dana will fall in love with me again, for certainly 
he did love me once. 

We went to New York, behaved ourselves in a very dig- 
nified and self-possessed manner. I signed -the papers at the 
lawyer’s office. I think I astonished Dana a little, as I would 
not vouchsafe to express the least interest in the documents 
— in fact, I flatter myself that I transacted my part of the 
business in a most nonchalant way, as though it were an 
every-day occurrence to me. After that was over Dana 
took me to the St. Denis to lunch. I ventured a mild pro- 
test, hinted something about the expense, said I did not care 
for any lunch (which was a polite prevarication), but Dana 
walked deliberately on and into the saloon. He thinks it 
his duty to bankrupt himself, because I am longing for 
luxuries. 

We had a delicious lunch, but I did not enjoy it much, it 
seemed hke such a useless extravagance. But I eat it, and 
tried to look amiable and entertained, but feeling ill at ease 
as I looked at Dana’s sober face and thought of the bill, un- 


84 


SPIDERS AND RICE PUDDING. 


til I wished I had stayed at home with my “ nightmare,” and 
had my lone lunch of oatmeal and tea, despising the former 
and hating the latter, as I do. How can people be so de- 
voted to tea ; it might all be at the bottom of the Red sea, 
without inspiring a regret in my heart. 

To return to our lunch. After we had finished it Dana said 
he had to buy some engravings at Schaus’ for a friend, so we 
went there. Again was my curiosity aroused, but again was 
I as unconcerned as before. By the time the pictures were 
bought it was dark, and time to return home. 

Dana devoted himself to his evening paper, and I looked 
out of the car window, speculating what we would do if we 
found our home burned down. The thing was done, however, 
in imagination, and we were quietly settled in a poorhouse, 
eating the “ bread of affliction,” when the train stopped, and 
we were at our station, and out of the car and in a carriage 
— another piece of extravagance ! 

Why does my husband think it necessary to treat me in 
this way ? I was now thoroughly indignant — he is trying 
to make me ashamed of myself. I sit bolt upright. I won't 
take any more ease than I can help. “To make up for all 
this outlay,” so I thought “ we must live on one meal a day 
for a month. I hope the horses will run away.” 

The ride seemed interminable; finally I condescend to turn 
my head, and am struck with amazement, for we have 
driven past the lodge at Elmwood, and are now before the 
house, which is brilliantly lighted from basement to turret. 

If I were writing a story, this would be the denouement, 
but as these are simply facts, I need not attempt any de- 
scription of my great surprise. The carriage door was 
opened by Mr. Stanworth’s old footman, who bowed to us 
as though we were the Sultan and his wife. 

When I came to my senses — I don’t wish to intimate that 
I fainted, but when I quite knew that I was not dreaming, I 
was in my husband’s arms and every thing w as blissful again. 


SPIDERS AND RICE PUDDING . 


85 


“ Forgive me, darling, for the deception, and for being such 
a bear to you, my own dear wife. You shall punish me in 
any way you like for keeping you so long in poverty and on 
‘ corned-beef dinners.’ ” 

To have Dana fond and loving again was enough; that he 
was indeed Mr. Stanworth’s grandson did not interest me 
half as much. 

W e dined in great state, with plenty of silver and glass ; 
at least we went through with the ceremony of dining, but 
I was too happy to eat. Dana was most charmingly lover- 
like and devoted. It made me almost melancholy, though 
to think of our poor little house and Rika — how deserted 
they are. I almost longed to be back with them again. 

All this mystery had to be explained, and Dana told me 
that when his mother died, ten years ago, she had made him 
promise that he would never make himself known to Mr. 
Stanworth ; but after his death, if any property was left to 
him, he could make himself known if he chose. He said, 
“ My father’s name was Stevens Abbott. Soon after he 
married he took my mother to England, where I was born. 
After many years my mother longed to see her old home 
again. To please her my father had had his name changed, 
taking his Christian name. * She wanted to come home as a 
stranger. My father died on board the ship and was buried 
at sea. My mother and I lived at Millwood until her death. 

After her death I came to 1ST to live, and you know 

the rest of my story. When I heard of my grandfather’s 
strange will, I determined to win you, if it were possible, as 
a poor man. 

“ Now, my best-beloved, you know the rest of the story. 
Say that you forgive the deception.” 

I would not say so— but what I did say seemed to satisfy 
him. 

Now Fanny and her husband can come whenever they 


86 


SPIDERS AND RICE PUDDING . 


like. I shall not write her anything about it, but let it all 
be for a surprise. 


CHAPTER XXI. 

“ TEiT-thousand if married,” so that Dana says I am still 
the heiress — but I don’t believe we shall quarrel about the 
matter — and about the box, although by the conditions of 
the will it was to be destroyed if Mr. Stanworth’s grandson 
was married — but nevertheless we opened it. 

In it was a long letter addressed to “ray dear daughter 
Marie.” The letter was full of endearing terms, and ex- 
pressions of the deepest regret that he had driven her from 
home. 

Then another long letter was directed to “ my grandson 

“ If you are noble and worthy of my dear Runaway, I 
hope you may win her for your wife. All the jewels in this 
box were your mother’s. If through any chance it happens 
that you lose your property, or if ever you are in need of 
more money than you have, take the key you find in this box, 
it unlocks a small closet, a secret one — to find it you must 
first move the largest bookcase in the library — in a panel in 
the floor, under the carpet, you will find the door of this 
closet. In the closet are some valuable diamonds and 
another key, which key unlocks a vault in which you will 
find gold. To find the vault you must drain the lake, as the 
treasures are under it.” 

W as there ever such a strange mortal as poor, dear, old 
Mr. Stan worth ! Now the convent of S. Kilda shall have a 
new chapel. 

To-day I drove over to our old home. The little place looks 
so deserted. *Rika still presides there in solemn state. 


SPIDERS AND RICE PUDDING. 


87 


Dana is going to have the house enlarged and converted 
into a public library, then Rika can still be the presiding 
genius, as she knows how to wield a broom and dust-pan, 
and so can find full scope for her talents. 

Fanny and Mr. Montgomery are coming to-night. The 
pound cake and fruit cake are made, the days of the turkeys 
and chickens numbered, my new silk home from the dress- 
makers, my beautiful house, I am so proud of it, in charm- 
ing order, and — but there is the lunch bell. No more 
lunches of oatmeal and tea. 

Dana has a most provoking way of asking if I still hate 
him as much as I once did ; he has not forgotten that speech 
of mine, and. if I am always so frank in expressing my feel- 
ings. I must find some way of teasing him or I shall never 
hear the last of that childish remark of mine. 

Sister Agatha was to have come to me for a visit, but she 
was taken ill ; they sent for me, but I was too late to see her 
alive — she was dead. 

They buried her in the convent cemetery. 

If her husband ever returns he will find only a grave, 
marked by a simple rustic cross. 

My literary efforts never amounted to much, although I 
was once vain enough to imagine that I was destined to a 
successful career in that line. 

I had dreamed of the time when I should write a book; 
then naturally I would take a European tour, return ladened 
with pictures by the old masters, and various other useless 
articles ; upon my landing, if not received by a salute of an 
hundred guns at least, some brass band would volunteer for 
the occasion. I should be drawn by white horses or enthusi- 
astic men to the Fifth Avenue,” bored to death with calls, 
operas, receptions, parties, pointed out as the distinguished 

Mrs. , the authoress. Luxurious thought ! rapturous 

vision ! but alas ! long ago vanished into thin air, and rather 


88 


SPIDERS AND RICE PUDDING. 


fortunately ! perhaps Dana would exclaim — for blue stock- 
ings are not good housekeepers — or not as good as I flatter 
myself I am. 

But it is time for the train, and I must drive down to the 
station for Dana. 

ANOTHER CONFIDENTIAL CHAT WITH THE READER. 

I must acknowledge that my first confidential words with 
the reader are wholly unreliable, pained as I am to implicate 
myself in a prevarication. Bless the man who invented a 
polished synonym for “fib.” 

The statement regarding the wardrobe and spider, and 
finding of the manuscript is entirely false — no, not about the 
spider either. I did see a large one once, which kept me in 
terror for a blessed hour. 

When I was so unhappy and wretched about that corned- 
beef, I had nothing to do, and so amused myself with writ- 
ing down the story of my life. 

I never dreamed that it would grow into a book — which 
would have the very inappropriate title of “ Spiders and 
Rice Pudding.” For “ Spiders ” I had a little reason, for 
‘‘ Rice Pudding ” none , exrcept that the word, in my mind, 
always follows “Spiders” as naturally as darkness follows 
light, which is a bad comparison by the way — as they are 

both things I utterly hate — as much as I love 

well, why should I hesitate to say it — Dana. 


THE END. 


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